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It had been almost a year since Grian had last seen Scar, long enough that he’d convinced himself he wouldn’t again. Long enough to believe he’d stopped wondering if he’d hear his name come across a radio or a hospital call sheet.
But when the ambulance doors burst open and the paramedics shouted, “Gunshot wound to the shoulder, Officer Goodtimes!” his stomach dropped before his mind could catch up.
The ER was chaos, fluorescent lights, the sharp smell of disinfectant, voices calling orders over the constant hum of machines. Grian didn’t look up right away. It was easier not to. Easier to believe that it was just another officer, another name that only happened to sound like his.
Then the stretcher came through.
Scar looked pale, grimy, the shoulder of his uniform dark and wet with blood, but somehow, he still managed to look stubbornly composed. Typical. Even half-conscious, the man could make arrogance look like composure.
And then those bright green eyes found him through the blur of motion.
“...Grian?” The word came out low, rough, but certain.
Grian froze for the barest second before his voice returned, calm and clipped. “Bay three,” he said to the nurses. “Let’s move, people.”
He fell into step beside the stretcher, fingers already tugging on gloves. He could feel the interns trailing him, Gem and Impulse, both new enough to still look nervous but curious enough to be a problem if they stared too long.
Scar’s mouth twitched into something that might’ve been a smirk if he hadn’t been losing blood. “Guess I really know how to make an entrance.”
Grian didn’t look at him. “Or you just never learned how to stay out of trouble.”
Scar’s voice came back without missing a beat. “You’d know. You always had something to say about how I do my job.”
Grian’s jaw tightened. “Only when your job got you shot.”
They reached Bay Three. The curtain was yanked aside, the room already prepped, bright lights, stainless steel trays, the sharp smell of antiseptic. The nurses locked the stretcher into place with a hard click, motion settling into focused stillness. For the first time since Scar rolled in, everything stopped moving except Grian.
“Still bossy,” Scar muttered under his breath, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
“And you’re still reckless,” Grian said flatly, pressing gauze against the wound. His movements were steady, precise, but his pulse wasn’t.
Scar hissed when Grian shifted the pressure. “Careful, angel-” He caught himself, clearing his throat. “Doc. Careful, doc.”
Grian ignored the slip, though his hands faltered for a fraction of a second. “If you’d stop squirming, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
He glanced at the spreading red on the gauze, judged the slowing but persistent bleed, then lifted his chin toward the tray. “Sutures,” he said curtly.
Gem passed them over with both hands, careful, reverent. Grian swapped out the gauze for a fresh dressing, applying one last firm press before peeling it back. “All right,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “Let’s close this before it complicates.”
Behind him, Impulse exchanged a quick, wide-eyed look with Gem. “Uh, are they-?”
“They’re not anything,” Grian said sharply, not looking up as he angled the needle. “And unless you’d like to be explaining bullet wound management to the chief tomorrow, I suggest you focus.”
Gem’s cheeks flushed. “Yes, doctor.”
Scar let out a quiet laugh, breathless and amused. “Still terrifying, I see.”
“Still mouthy,” Grian shot back, tightening a stitch just enough to make Scar wince.
He glanced up once, only once, and caught Scar watching him. That same steady, searching gaze that used to undo him completely. Scar didn’t look away, and for a second, neither did Grian. Then he blinked and went back to his work.
The rest of the stitching passed in silence, save for Scar’s shallow breathing and the occasional murmur between the interns. When Grian finished, he set the instruments aside, peeled off his gloves, and reached for the chart.
“You’ll need to keep pressure off that shoulder,” he said evenly. “And avoid doing anything stupid.”
Scar smirked faintly. “That’s asking a lot.”
“Then consider it a challenge.” He handed the chart to Gem, who took it carefully. “Discharge him once he’s cleared for transport.”
Scar’s grin faded slightly, voice quieter. “Guess this is where you disappear again, huh?”
Grian didn’t look back as he stepped away. “You’re my patient, Scar. That’s all.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
Out in the corridor, the noise of the ER filled the space he’d left behind, the rhythm of motion, the buzz of radios, the sharp scent of blood and antiseptic. Grian leaned briefly against the wall, drawing in a slow breath.
It should’ve been just another call. Just another officer. Just another wound to patch and forget.
But Grian already knew better.
With Scar, it never stayed that simple.
After Scar had been taken off to recovery, Grian buried himself in work. He moved from one room to the next, checking vitals, updating notes, answering questions that blurred together until they barely sounded like words. It was easier that way, to lose himself in the routine, in the rhythm that left no space for thinking.
Because whenever he slowed down, his mind tried to drift back to bay three.
To the sound of Scar’s voice. The way he’d said angel before catching himself.
Grian exhaled quietly through his nose and turned the thought off like a switch. Scar was still somewhere in the building, paperwork, observation, probably charming half the nursing staff if he hadn’t already, but thankfully, not in his sightline.
Good. He needed the distance.
It was nearly an hour later when he stopped by one of his favorite rooms, room four-twelve, Mrs. Watcher. She’d been admitted weeks ago for complications after surgery, but she was the kind of patient that made the grind worth it. Sharp, funny, endlessly talkative, the type who treated the ward like her personal parlor.
When Grian stepped into the room, she looked up from her magazine, her silver hair pinned neatly back. Gem and Impulse were already there, checking the monitors, trying not to laugh as Mrs. Watcher recounted something in vivid detail.
“There’s my favorite doctor,” she said brightly the moment she spotted him. “I was just telling your little shadows here about the time you nearly dropped that cup of coffee on yourself during rounds.”
Grian groaned. “You’re supposed to forget embarrassing stories, Mrs. Watcher, not preserve them like ancient artifacts.”
“Oh, nonsense. Someone has to keep your reputation humble.” She gave him a teasing smile before waving Gem and Impulse off. “Go on, darlings, you can hover outside for a moment. I want to talk to my favorite gossip subject in private.”
Gem gave Grian a sheepish grin, and Impulse tried, and failed, to hide his smirk. They slipped out, closing the door behind them.
Mrs. Watcher waited until the latch clicked before leaning back against her pillows, eyes twinkling. “So,” she said, voice lowering conspiratorially, “I heard from a little bird that you had quite the reunion earlier today.”
Grian blinked. “You mean-?”
“Tall, charming, infuriating man with a badge and a bullet wound,” she said matter-of-factly. “That would be the one.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Gem really needs to work on what qualifies as ‘confidential.’”
“She didn’t say much,” Mrs. Watcher said, lips curving in amusement. “Just that there was a bit of tension in the air. Electricity, I think she called it.”
“There was blood in the air,” Grian muttered, checking the IV line just to have something to look at. “Not electricity.”
“Mm-hm,” she hummed, clearly unconvinced. “You can pretend all you like, dear, but I’ve been around long enough to recognize unfinished business when I see it.”
He didn’t answer right away. The monitor beeped steadily beside them, a soft, patient rhythm. Finally, Grian said quietly, “It was a long time ago.”
“Long doesn’t always mean over,” she said gently.
Her tone softened then, the teasing giving way to something warmer. “When I was your age, I was in love once. The kind of love that made everything else seem smaller, even common sense.” She smiled faintly at the memory, eyes unfocused. “He was reckless, always chasing excitement, never staying still. Drove me half mad, but I adored him for it. We lasted a few years before life caught up with us. He moved, I stayed, and that was that. But even now, when I think back… I don’t regret a single moment. Not even the ending.”
Grian paused his writing on the chart. Her words hit too close, too neatly matched to the ache still lodged somewhere in his chest.
He thought of Scar’s grin, his impossible optimism, the way he used to come home after long shifts with stories he wasn’t supposed to tell, and that unshakable warmth that made Grian forgive him for every worry he caused.
And then he thought of the fight. The shouting. The silence that came after.
He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sometimes some people just aren’t meant for each other,” he said softly. “Even if they want to be.”
Mrs. Watcher studied him for a long moment, her gaze kind but knowing. “Or maybe,” she said, “they just meet at the wrong time.”
He didn’t respond to that. Just adjusted her blanket, made a note in her chart, and gave her a practiced smile.
“I’ll have the interns bring your tea in a bit,” he said. “Try not to make them question all their life choices while I’m gone.”
“Oh, no promises,” she said with a wink.
As he stepped out into the hall, Grian let out a slow breath, the faint hum of the ward wrapping around him again. He needed to focus on his patients, his rounds, anything but the fact that somewhere down the hall, Scar was still here.
Because even now, after everything, the thought alone was enough to make his pulse stumble.
By the time evening settled over the hospital, the rhythm of the ward had slowed but never really stopped. The chaos dulled to a steady hum, the muted shuffle of shoes on tile, the occasional ring of a phone, the soft hiss of machines.
Grian moved through it like he always did, quiet, methodical, keeping his mind on his notes, on vitals, on anything that wasn’t the man still somewhere in the building.
He checked on his post-ops, signed off on two new admissions, and spent longer than necessary updating a chart just to fill the silence. He’d convinced himself that if he stayed busy enough, Scar would fade into the background noise, another patient, another temporary presence that came and went like hundreds before him.
But fate had a way of testing that kind of resolve.
When Grian turned the corner near the nurses’ station, he spotted a familiar figure sitting on the edge of a bed at the far end of the hall.
Scar.
His arm was bound in a fresh sling now, his uniform replaced by a soft hospital shirt. A nurse, one of the younger ones, was going over discharge instructions, smiling a little too brightly at something Scar said. He laughed, quiet and polite, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
It was a strange thing, seeing him like that, smaller, somehow. Still him, still that same undeniable presence, but quieter than Grian remembered.
Impulse stood nearby with a clipboard, clearly tasked with helping the discharge paperwork. He glanced up when he saw Grian lingering and raised an eyebrow, like he wasn’t sure if he should wave or hide. Grian gave a subtle shake of his head.
He didn’t need the interns’ commentary again.
Just as he shifted to turn down the opposite hall, a voice called out from behind him.
“Dr. Grian!”
Grian froze for a half-second, instinctively glancing toward the sound. One of the attending doctors, tall, polished, and far too comfortable with his charm, was striding toward him from the trauma wing, clipboard in hand and an easy grin already in place.
He’d worked with Grian for years. Competent, well-liked, and notoriously flirtatious, the kind of person who never quite learned the meaning of boundaries. Once, back when Grian and Scar were together, there had been rumors. Nothing ever happened, but that didn’t stop the doctor from trying, or from Scar noticing.
And in that moment of hesitation, Scar looked up.
Their eyes met across the length of the corridor.
Grian’s stomach dropped, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He immediately looked away, snapping his focus to the doctor as if the sight of Scar hadn’t just pulled something deep and familiar out of him.
“Doctor,” Grian greeted, professional and calm. “What is it?”
The man flashed that same easy smile. “I need a second opinion on a post-op in four-ten. Sutures are holding, but the swelling’s not going down as quickly as I’d like. Thought you might take a look before I clear him for mobility.”
“Of course,” Grian said evenly. His tone didn’t waver, though his fingers curled a little tighter around his clipboard. “I’ll come with you.”
As the doctor turned and started down the hall, Grian followed, and against his better judgment, he glanced back over his shoulder.
Scar was still watching.
There was something unreadable in his expression, not anger, not pain, but something heavier. His jaw was set, his eyes shadowed. Jealousy? Possessiveness? Grian wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to be.
Whatever it was, it made his pulse stumble in a way that irritated him more than anything else.
He tore his gaze away before the other doctor could notice, catching up with brisk, steady steps. “What’s the patient’s background?” he asked, his voice clipped and focused again.
The doctor started listing vitals and recovery notes, tone still annoyingly casual, and Grian forced himself to listen, to work, to focus, to not think about the eyes that had followed him all the way down the corridor.
Still, as they turned the corner, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Scar was still watching.
He stayed with the doctor through the last of the documentation, signing off on orders, clarifying meds, confirming the numbers one more time because his hands wouldn’t stop being a little too tight, a little too tense. And once that was done, the rest of his shift simply…blurred.
By the time Grian clocked out, the hospital had settled into that strange, heavy quiet that only came in the late hours, lights dimmed, halls echoing with the low hum of machines.
He told himself he was fine. Just tired. Just another long day.
But when BigB waved him over from the hospital’s side entrance, smiling like he hadn’t been on his feet for twelve hours straight, Grian didn’t protest the invitation.
“Come on, man,” BigB said. “You’ve earned a drink. We all have.”
Ten minutes later, the four of them, Grian, BigB, Mumbo, and Cleo, were crammed into a booth at their usual spot near the hospital. A quiet bar that smelled faintly of fries and lemon cleaner, with a bartender who knew all their orders by heart.
BigB was already halfway through a basket of onion rings. Mumbo nursed a dark drink, scrolling distractedly through his phone, probably checking on a patient note he couldn’t let go of. Cleo, stretched out at the end of the booth, was telling some story about an overconfident intern who’d nearly fainted during surgery.
Grian tried to listen, really. But the conversation felt like static, his mind half a step elsewhere.
When the waitress came by, he ordered without thinking. “Whiskey please.”
Three heads turned toward him.
“Whiskey?” Mumbo repeated, blinking. “You don’t drink whiskey.”
Grian shrugged, pretending to study the condensation on his water glass. “Long day.”
BigB leaned forward, grinning. “You never order whiskey unless it’s your birthday. Or, you know, a wedding. Or something mildly catastrophic.”
Cleo’s smirk was sharper. “So which one was it? Please tell me we’re not celebrating a secret marriage.”
Grian huffed out a soft laugh. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Then catastrophic it is,” she said, raising her glass in mock sympathy. “To whatever disaster made our dear Grian pick whiskey.”
By the time the drink arrived, golden, neat, catching the low light, the teasing had moved on to hospital gossip. Grian lifted the glass and took a slow sip. The warmth hit his chest hard, sharp, grounding.
They kept talking, work, life, the usual venting about hospital politics, but Grian was quieter than usual. Mumbo noticed first, of course.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said after a while, voice gentle but curious. “Everything all right?”
Grian nodded, eyes fixed on his drink. “Just tired, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh,” Cleo said dryly.
“Maybe he’s just finally run out of energy to argue with us,” BigB offered with a teasing grin. “Took, what, five years?”
Normally, Grian would’ve rolled his eyes or thrown a napkin at him, but tonight, he just smiled faintly and looked down at the amber swirl in his glass.
He could still see Scar’s face in his mind, the half-smile, the strain around his eyes, the unspoken weight in the air between them.
“Really,” Grian said after a beat too long. “I’m fine. Just a long shift.”
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either.
Mumbo gave him one last searching look but didn’t press. Cleo changed the subject, launching into a story about one of the nurses trying to flirt with the vending machine technician again.
The laughter that followed filled the space enough for Grian to hide behind it.
He took another slow drink, letting the burn chase away the lingering memory of Scar’s gaze in the corridor, that strange mix of something like jealousy and something far too familiar.
He didn’t want to think about it. Not tonight.
So he smiled when he needed to, laughed when it was expected, and told himself that tomorrow, it would feel lighter.
It never really did.
Three days later, Grian was back in his usual rhythm, or at least pretending he was. Mornings were easier when he didn’t think too hard. Clipboard, scrubs, coffee, charts. Same walls, same stale air, same endless rotation of names and numbers.
He clocked in, scanned the overnight report, and spotted two interns waiting near the nurse’s station, Gem and Jimmy, both bright-eyed and clearly running on too much caffeine.
“All right,” Grian said, adjusting his coat. “You’re both with me today. Try not to faint, argue, or flirt with anyone you’re supposed to be treating.”
Gem grinned. “So basically, don’t be Jimmy.”
“Hey!” Jimmy said, cheeks pinking already. “That was one time.”
Grian sighed. “Good to know we’re starting strong. What’s our first case?”
Gem pulled up the chart. “Twenty-seven-year-old, mild laceration on the hand from a kitchen accident. No signs of tendon involvement.”
“Perfect,” Grian said. “A simple case to warm you up.”
They stepped into bay two, where a nervous patient sat cradling their wrapped hand. Grian greeted them briefly, gathered the basics, then nodded to Jimmy.
“Jimmy, you’re cleaning and stitching this one.”
Jimmy froze, eyes darting to the patient, then back to Grian. “Wait, me?”
“You’re an intern, not a spectator,” Grian said evenly. “Gloves on. Let’s go.”
Jimmy swallowed, fumbling for gloves. “Right. Yeah. No pressure.”
“Plenty of pressure,” Gem muttered under her breath. “That’s how you stop the bleeding.”
Jimmy shot her a betrayed look before fumbling for gloves. Grian guided him through the prep, irrigation, disinfectant, positioning, correcting the angle of his hands with quiet taps.
When Jimmy hesitated, needle hovering, Grian leaned in. “You know what you’re doing. Don’t overthink it. And don’t drop the needle.”
“That was one time,” Jimmy muttered.
“Yet we all remember it,” Gem whispered.
“Gem,” Grian said without looking up, “what’s the most common complication with hand lacerations?”
“Infection,” she answered immediately. “Especially in cases where the wound wasn’t cleaned promptly.”
“Good. Jimmy, less tension on that stitch. You’ll pucker the skin.”
Jimmy adjusted, shoulders tight with concentration. “Like this?”
“Better,” Grian said. “Continue.”
They worked through the rest of the sutures together, slow, careful, but steady. When Jimmy tied off the last one, Grian offered a brief approving nod.
“Not bad. Basic, but clean. You’re improving.”
Jimmy practically glowed. “Really?”
Grian allowed the faintest hint of a smile. “Really. Keep practicing and you’ll be solid in no time.”
Gem laughed, delighted by Jimmy’s grin. The patient thanked them, and once the nurse took over for bandaging and paperwork, Grian ushered the interns into the hall.
The rest of the morning followed the same pattern, Grian firing off questions, Gem answering with sharp confidence, Jimmy stumbling then recovering, Grian correcting them both with clipped precision.
A sprained ankle, a suspected fracture, a routine medication check.
Simple cases, but good teaching material.
By late morning, their rhythm had settled into something almost smooth. Grian reviewed their charting, made a few corrections, then handed out new tasks.
“Gem,” he said, passing her a tablet, “radiology needs follow-up notes on the ankle case. Go double-check the scans and bring me the report.”
“And you,” he said, turning to Jimmy, “are going to shadow the triage nurse for a bit. Watch, don’t interrupt.”
They both nodded and headed off without hesitation.
With the two of them busy and the morning rush finally thinning, the hospital settled into a quieter hum.
Grian finally had the space to step into something more substantial, a quick consult in surgery. It wasn’t complicated, just a follow-up procedure he’d been asked to assist with, but it took long enough for the clock to slip forward and the halls to quiet even more.
By the time he scrubbed out and returned to the floor, Gem and Jimmy were still off on their respective assignments and the day had settled into a manageable pace. Grian checked on a patient with a sprained wrist, nothing serious, updated the chart, and was halfway through the final note when an intern jogged up beside him.
“Dr. Grian?” Jimmy’s voice came a little breathless. “Uh, there’s a patient in room twelve asking for a check-up clearance. Says he was in earlier this week. He wants to be cleared to return to work early.”
Grian raised an eyebrow without looking up. “Early clearance? That’s not how recovery works, Jimmy. Did you tell them that?”
“I did,” he said quickly, “but he insisted. Said it was important. Captain Etho’s with him too, apparently it’s a police thing?”
That got Grian’s attention. He sighed, closing the patient’s chart and tucking it under his arm. “Of course it is. Fine. I’ll take a look. Let’s see which overconfident cop thinks he can out-stubborn a doctor.”
When he stepped into room twelve, the sarcasm died half-formed on his tongue.
Sitting on the edge of the exam table, uniform jacket draped over one shoulder, was Scar. His grin was exactly the same, too bright, too confident, but the sight of the bandage peeking from under his shirt pulled Grian’s stomach into a knot.
Etho stood beside him, arms crossed, and another uniformed officer leaned casually against the wall, one Grian recognized from the precinct, though he couldn’t place the name.
“Of course,” Grian said under his breath, voice flat. “It’s you.”
Scar’s grin widened, though something flickered behind it. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”
“Not long enough,” Grian muttered, setting the chart down with more force than necessary. “You’re supposed to be home resting, not playing dress-up in your uniform pretending you’re fine.”
Scar pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Dress-up? I’ll have you know this uniform is authentic. Bloodstains and all.”
“Not impressed,” Grian shot back. “And your shoulder’s still healing. You’re not cleared.”
Etho cleared his throat, clearly trying not to smile. “Told him you’d say that.”
Scar waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. But I am fine. I feel good, Grian. Good enough to go back to work.”
“Of course you do,” Grian said tightly. “You’d be fine to go back to work if you’d just be a little more careful.”
Scar’s grin sharpened. “Careful? Says the man who used to stay up all night waiting for me to text that I made it home. You really haven’t changed.”
Grian froze, eyes snapping to him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You just don’t want to clear me because you want me to be miserable,” Scar murmured, leaning back.
“You were doing a great job of that on your own,” Grian retorted, tone clipped, but the jab landed softer than he meant it to. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. You want a check-up? Sit still.”
Scar obeyed, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Always so commanding.”
“Quiet,” Grian said, stepping closer. The room suddenly felt smaller, close enough for Grian to smell the faint trace of aftershave he used to know too well. He pressed lightly around the bandaged area, his hands steady and professional, though his pulse betrayed him. Scar didn’t flinch, but his gaze followed every movement.
“You’ve been keeping it clean,” Grian murmured, almost to himself. “Range of motion?”
Scar rotated his arm carefully, watching Grian instead of his shoulder. “See? Good as new.”
“Hmm.” Grian’s hand lingered just a moment longer than necessary before he pulled back. “You’ll live. But you’re not fully recovered.”
Scar tilted his head. “You know, you used to say that every time I came home with a bruise.”
“That was before I realized you’d never learn,” Grian said dryly, scribbling a note. “And before you stopped listening.”
Scar’s grin faltered for half a second, then returned, softer this time. “I did listen. Just… not enough, I guess.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Grian didn’t look up. “You’re cleared for light duty only. Desk work, routine patrols, no field assignments, no heroics, nothing that lands you back in my ER. Got it?”
Scar exhaled, a small, defeated smile tugging at his lips. “Desk duty. You really know how to make a man suffer.”
“You’ll survive,” Grian said, signing the chart and tearing the clearance slip free. He handed it over, their fingers brushing for a heartbeat too long. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Scar took the paper, his grin returning but not quite reaching his eyes. “No promises, doc.”
Grian didn’t look back as he stepped out of the exam room, though he could feel Scar’s eyes on him the whole way to the door. The chart was tucked firmly under his arm, his steps brisk and purposeful, too purposeful.
The hallway was quieter than usual, the low hum of conversation and the soft squeak of sneakers on tile blending into a kind of white noise. It should’ve been easy to slip back into his routine, to lose himself in paperwork and patient rounds. But Scar’s voice lingered, low and teasing, echoing like a half-forgotten melody.
“Desk duty,” Grian muttered under his breath, as if repeating it could make the encounter fade faster. “That’s all he gets. He’ll probably find a way to make even that reckless.”
Still, his chest felt tight, not with irritation, but something else. Something heavier.
He’d spent months convincing himself that worrying about Scar was wasted energy, that what they’d had had burned out because it was supposed to. But seeing him again, stubborn, smiling, pretending he wasn’t still hurting, it chipped at the armor he’d built.
The smell of antiseptic hit stronger as he turned the corner, grounding him back in fluorescent light and responsibility. He reminded himself that he was a doctor, that patients came and went every day. That’s what Scar was now, a patient. Nothing more.
And yet… his hands still remembered the shape of that shoulder beneath them, the warmth of skin that wasn’t feverish, just familiar.
Before he knew it, it had been almost a week since Scar’s check-up, almost a week since Grian had signed the clearance slip he wasn’t sure he should’ve. The days had blurred together since then, shifts bleeding into one another as the hospital filled and emptied with the usual stream of chaos.
Now, that chaos had spilled into the streets.
Several ambulances tore through the city, sirens wailing. Inside one, Grian braced himself between cabinets and stretchers, surrounded by a handful of doctors, surgeons, and interns from the hospital, all of them dispatched as part of the emergency response team. Whatever had happened, it was big enough to pull half the staff off-site.
The world blurred into motion and noise.
Sirens screamed down the street, a frantic symphony of red and blue lights cutting through the smoke that hung thick in the air. Grian stood in the back of the ambulance, bracing against every sharp turn as they neared the site. Even before they stopped, he could see the column of dark smoke twisting into the sky, and the orange glow licking from shattered windows.
“Bomb in the east wing,” one of the EMTs shouted over the radio. “Fire spreading fast, civilians and officers still trapped inside.”
Grian didn’t hesitate. As soon as the doors swung open, he was on the ground running, medical kit in hand, joining the flood of responders rushing toward the chaos.
The heat hit first, dry, suffocating, followed by the scent of ash and scorched metal. People were scattered across the street: firefighters hauling hoses, medics crouched beside the wounded, voices calling names into the haze. Grian dropped to his knees beside a paramedic already tending to an older man with burns, helping to steady the oxygen mask, his hands working on instinct even as his mind screamed to stay calm.
It felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been more than minutes, treating, moving, passing off patients to waiting ambulances. The rhythm was brutal but familiar: stabilize, breathe, move on.
And then a voice cut through the smoke, distant but distinct.
“We need medical here!”
Grian’s head snapped up. Through the haze, he caught sight of two firefighters emerging from the broken doorway of the building, and between them, a familiar figure.
The woman in his arms was unconscious, soot streaked across her face. He carried her like she weighed nothing, his movements steady despite the fire still roaring behind him. The moment the paramedics took her, though, the officer staggered, blood marking the side of his shirt, a cut running down his temple.
Grian froze. His heart stopped, then started again too fast.
Scar.
He didn’t remember moving. One second he was standing there, the next he was at Scar’s side, catching him by the arm just as he swayed.
“Sit down,” Grian ordered, voice too sharp to hide the tremor beneath it. “Now.”
Scar blinked through the haze, eyes finding him. Even through the soot, his smile flickered, tired but there. “You again, huh? Thought I was supposed to be on desk duty.”
“Apparently ‘light duty’ means running into burning buildings now,” Grian shot back, already digging into his kit. “You can’t follow simple instructions to save your life, can you?”
Scar’s laugh was weak, but real. “Guess old habits die hard.”
Grian ignored him, pressing gauze against the wound on his side, the blood blooming warm beneath his gloved hands. “You could’ve died in there.”
“I didn’t,” Scar said softly.
“That’s not the point,” Grian hissed. The words came too fast, too heavy, his hands trembling as he worked. “You never think it’ll happen until it almost does. You keep-” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. “You keep doing this, and one day I won’t get the call that you made it out.”
Scar stilled. “What?”
Grian froze. His breath caught, but it was too late. The words hung between them, raw and unguarded.
Grian didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The noise around them seemed to fade until all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and the fire still roaring in the distance.
He taped the gauze down carefully, his eyes refusing to meet Scar’s. “You need to go to the hospital,” he said finally, his voice thin, fraying at the edges. “There might be internal bruising. You hit your head, too, concussion risk.”
Scar reached up, gently catching Grian’s wrist before he could pull away. “Grian-”
“Don’t,” Grian said quickly. His tone cracked, barely holding. “Just… don’t.”
Their eyes met, and Scar could see it then, the fear, the tears Grian was holding back with all the force of his will. It was the same look he’d seen the night they broke apart, only now there was no anger left in it. Just raw, aching worry.
Before either of them could say more, paramedics pushed through, calling for Scar. He hesitated, his grip tightening once before he forced himself to let go.
“They’ll take care of you,” Grian said, stepping back. “You’ll be fine.”
Scar didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue. He let the paramedics guide him toward the ambulance, eyes still locked on Grian’s until the smoke swallowed the distance between them.
Grian stood there for a moment, frozen in the chaos, his chest tight and aching. The smell of smoke clung to his hair, to his clothes, to everything around him.
He wiped at his eyes quickly, once, sharply, before turning toward the next shout for help.
There were still people to save. He could fall apart later.
By the time Grian made it back to the hospital, the world had turned into organized chaos.
Every hallway was filled, gurneys lined against walls, nurses rushing past with IV bags, and the sharp smell of antiseptic cutting through the smoke that still clung to his clothes. The automatic doors had barely closed behind him when someone called his name, pressing a clipboard into his hands and rattling off updates on patient conditions.
He barely had time to nod before he was moving again.
The ER overflowed with the injured, burns, smoke inhalation, fractures, and deep lacerations from the explosion. Every room was filled, every curtain drawn, every voice pitched somewhere between command and desperation. It was the kind of chaos Grian knew too well, the kind that demanded every ounce of focus he had left.
But even as he moved from patient to patient, his eyes kept darting toward the hallways branching off from the ER. Each time a stretcher was wheeled by, he found himself searching faces. Looking for one in particular.
He told himself it was just to check on a patient. That it was protocol, concern for someone he’d already treated. Nothing more.
Except his chest didn’t believe it.
He was scribbling a note on a patient chart when a familiar voice cut through the din.
“Grian!”
He turned to see Dr. Martyn striding toward him, surgical cap already on, gloves half-pulled over his hands. “You’re with me,” Martyn said quickly. “We’ve got a critical from the fire, internal bleeding, smoke damage, possible shrapnel. OR two’s prepped and waiting.”
“Got it.” Grian stripped off his gloves, tossing them into the bin as they started walking toward the scrub room. His mind flicked back once more toward the ER doors. He still hadn’t seen Scar. Not even a glimpse.
He slowed his pace just slightly, catching sight of Jimmy organizing supplies near the trauma bay. “Jimmy!”
The intern’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Yes, Dr. Grian?”
Grian stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that the surrounding noise swallowed most of it. “I need you to do something for me.”
Jimmy straightened immediately. “Of course.”
“There’s an officer, Goodtimes. Scar Goodtimes. He was brought in not long ago from the fire. I need to know where he’s being treated, who’s assigned to him, and what his injuries are. Quietly,” Grian added before Jimmy could ask. “Don’t draw attention, don’t ask questions. Just observe and report back to me when you can.”
Jimmy blinked, caught off guard by the urgency in Grian’s tone. “Uh, right. Got it. Find Officer Goodtimes, see his injuries, and report back. No questions.”
“Exactly.”
Jimmy hesitated for a split second, studying Grian with a faintly curious expression. “Sir… is he-?”
“He’s a patient,” Grian interrupted quickly. “And I need to make sure my patients are okay. That’s all.”
“Right,” Jimmy said, nodding too fast to argue.
Grian exhaled, the edge in his chest easing just slightly. “Do this for me, and next time I have a surgery, you scrub in with me. Deal?”
Jimmy’s eyes went wide. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Now go.”
That was all the motivation Jimmy needed, he was gone in an instant, jogging down the corridor and disappearing behind a cluster of nurses.
“Interns,” Martyn muttered with a shake of his head as Grian caught back up. “They’d run through fire for the promise of seeing an open chest cavity.”
“Maybe,” Grian said, trying to sound light, though his thoughts were still elsewhere. “But at least he’ll get it done.”
Martyn gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t push. “Come on then, doc. Let’s save a life.”
Grian nodded, pulling his mask up as they reached the scrub room. The rhythm of washing up, suiting up, and focusing on the next task pulled him back into his element, precise, steady, controlled.
But even as the hum of the operating theater surrounded him, a small part of his mind stayed fixed on one question he couldn’t shake:
Was Scar all right?
For now, all he could do was trust that Jimmy would find out, and that, just this once, the universe would give him a break.
The surgery lights dimmed as Martyn set the final stitch, his movements steady and sure. “Suction,” he said, and Grian handed it over without missing a beat. They’d been in the OR for nearly an hour, smoke damage, internal bleeding, shrapnel removal, but the patient was stable now. Breathing on their own.
Martyn exhaled through his mask. “Good work,” he muttered, stepping back slightly. “Let’s get them into recovery.”
Grian nodded, his eyes flicking upward for just a second toward the observation window. Through the glass, the chaotic rhythm of the hospital seemed to fade, because there, standing awkwardly with a clipboard clutched to his chest, was Jimmy.
Grian met his gaze briefly. A silent question. Jimmy gave a small, confirming nod in return.
That was all Grian needed.
He helped transfer the patient off the table, assisting with the lines and ensuring the vitals held steady before stepping back to let the nurses take over. His hands trembled faintly from the adrenaline, but he steadied them as he peeled off his gloves and stripped out of the blood-stained scrubs. The water at the sink ran pink for a moment before fading clear as he washed up beside Martyn.
“Hell of a day,” Martyn said, rubbing a towel over his face. “Are you doing okay?”
Grian gave a short, practiced smile. “Yeah. Just another long shift.”
Martyn snorted. “Liar.” He clapped Grian on the shoulder, gave a tired grin, and disappeared through the double doors toward the next patient.
Grian let himself take one slow breath before pushing through the doors as well, where Jimmy was waiting, looking like he’d sprinted up several flights of stairs to get there.
They fell into step automatically, weaving through the crowded hallway as the buzz of controlled chaos surrounded them again.
“Well?” Grian asked quietly, keeping his voice low.
Jimmy nodded quickly, flipping open his notes. “Officer Goodtimes was brought in about an hour ago. They’ve got him in trauma bay six, Dr. Bigb’s the attending. He’s got a laceration on his right temple, minor concussion, a puncture wound on his left side that didn’t hit anything vital, a few deep abrasions from debris, and mild smoke inhalation.”
Grian exhaled, just barely audible. Relief and worry tangled in his chest, one trying to win over the other.
“He’s stable,” Jimmy added, reading the look on Grian’s face. “Vitals are good. He’s awake, too, a little out of it, but talking.”
Grian nodded slowly, forcing his composure back into place. “Good. That’s… good.”
They turned a corner, and Grian stopped, pulling Jimmy slightly aside so they weren’t blocking the hall. “Go back,” he said. “Stay with him. Tell Dr. Bigb you’re assigned to assist, I’m putting you there as my intern. Keep an eye on his vitals and tend to whatever he needs help with.”
Jimmy blinked. “You’re assigning me to him? You’re not-” He hesitated, searching Grian’s face. “You’re not going to check on him yourself?”
Grian froze, just for a second. His throat felt tight.
“I can’t,” he said finally, barely above a whisper. “Not right now.”
Jimmy studied him, the tired eyes, the set jaw, the way Grian’s hands fidgeted at his sides like he wanted to move but couldn’t decide where. Then Jimmy seemed to understand. He nodded once, firmly.
“Got it,” he said. “I’ll make sure he’s okay. I’ll stay with him and let you know if anything changes.”
Grian managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Jimmy.”
“Don’t mention it.” Jimmy gave him a reassuring grin before hurrying back down the hall, disappearing into the flurry of movement and voices.
Grian stood still for a moment, watching him go. The noise of the ER pressed in again, calls for stretchers, the whir of ventilators, the beep of monitors, but none of it could drown out the pounding in his chest.
Scar was safe. Alive. Breathing. That should’ve been enough.
And yet, when Grian turned back to the chaos, he found himself avoiding the corridor that led toward trauma bay six. He buried himself in work, cleaning wounds, giving orders, keeping his hands busy, anything to stop his thoughts from drifting back to the man lying just down the hall.
He didn’t dare look that way again.
Because if he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk past.
Scar lay half-propped on the narrow hospital bed, the room smelling faintly of antiseptic and burnt fabric. His uniform shirt had been cut open, left draped across a chair in tatters, and a gauze wrap wound tight around his ribs. A dull ache pulsed there with every breath, more annoyance than pain at this point.
He’d told Etho he didn’t need to stay, that he’d be fine, but the captain hadn’t listened, muttering something about “protocol” and “not wanting another lecture from Grian.” Then he’d left Scar in Dr. Bigb’s capable hands, which meant there was no escaping the constant prodding or the pointed “you’re lucky” comments.
“You’re lucky, you know,” Bigb said again now, standing over him with a tablet and a look that managed to be both tired and amused. “If that support beam had landed a few inches lower, we’d be talking about reconstructive surgery.”
Scar gave a weak grin. “What can I say? I’m a magnet for danger. Part of the charm.”
Bigb snorted. “Charm, huh? I’d call it recklessness.” He finished noting something on the tablet, then gestured toward the oxygen mask hanging off Scar’s neck. “Keep that on for another hour, minimum. You breathed in a lot of smoke.”
“Yes, sir,” Scar said lightly, though he didn’t put it back on.
Bigb just gave him a look. The same one Grian used to give when he didn’t follow doctor’s orders. That thought twisted something in Scar’s chest that had nothing to do with the bandages.
The door opened with a soft click, and a familiar voice broke through his thoughts.
“Dr. Bigb? Dr. Grian sent me, he wants me to help monitor Officer Goodtimes.”
Scar glanced over. Jimmy, the intern from earlier, the one who looked like he still got nervous holding a stethoscope, stood in the doorway, trying to balance confidence with uncertainty.
Bigb nodded, relieved to have extra help. “Good. He’s stable, but keep an eye on the monitors while I check on the other trauma cases. If anything changes, page me immediately.”
Jimmy nodded eagerly. “Yes, doctor.”
Bigb gave Scar a look that said don’t move, and then slipped out, leaving them alone.
The second the door shut, Scar smirked. “So, Grian sent you personally, huh?”
Jimmy fumbled with the clipboard, looking caught. “Uh… yeah. He just wanted updates. On your condition.”
Scar raised an eyebrow, grin tugging wider. “Did he now?”
Jimmy’s cheeks went pink. “He, um, told me not to ask questions.”
“Smart man,” Scar murmured, settling back against the pillow. “Still bossing people around, I see.”
Jimmy busied himself checking the IV line, clearly trying to focus on anything that wasn’t Scar’s tone.
Scar watched him for a moment, then said quietly, “Was he okay? When he asked?”
Jimmy hesitated. “He seemed… worried. Focused, but worried.” He glanced at Scar, then looked away quickly. “He wanted to make sure you were stable.”
Something in Scar’s chest loosened at that, a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding since the explosion. He swallowed, voice a little rougher when he finally spoke again. “He’s good at hiding it, you know. The worry.”
Jimmy looked curious but stayed silent.
Scar gave a small, humorless laugh. “When we were together, he used to pretend he wasn’t scared every time I got called in. Acted like it didn’t bother him. But he’d stay up all night waiting for me to text him that I was home. I didn’t… realize how much that meant until after.”
Jimmy nodded, adjusting a monitor that didn’t need adjusting. “He mentioned something like that. Earlier. When he found you.”
Scar’s gaze flicked up sharply. “He did?”
Jimmy blinked. “Maybe I shouldn’t’ve said that-”
“No,” Scar interrupted softly, his throat tight. “It’s fine.” He looked down at his hands, flexing them slowly. Soot still clung faintly to his skin, smudged beneath the IV tape. “Guess I wasn’t the only one who got things wrong.”
They both fell quiet, the steady beep of the monitor filling the space.
After a moment, Jimmy said gently, “He didn’t just assign me to give Bigb a hand, he wanted me here so I could report back to him.”
Scar’s chest warmed despite the ache. “Did he now,” he murmured. “You sure you’re not just trying to make me feel better?”
Jimmy gave a faint grin. “You’re not exactly a model patient. You think anyone volunteered for this?”
Scar chuckled, wincing as the motion pulled at his side. “Fair point.”
He leaned his head back, eyes drifting to the ceiling. The edges of the world blurred a little, exhaustion, medication, maybe the weight of everything he hadn’t said yet.
But through it all, one thought stuck.
If Grian still cared enough to worry, then maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late to fix things.
The hospital had finally begun to quiet.
Not silent, never silent, but the frantic energy of the afternoon had dulled to a low hum. Monitors beeped in steady rhythm down the corridors, and the faint smell of smoke still lingered, carried in by every patient who’d been pulled from the wreckage.
Grian moved on autopilot, his scrubs wrinkled and his throat raw from hours of shouting orders over the noise. He’d done three procedures, assisted in two more, and lost count of how many bandages he’d changed. The adrenaline that had carried him through the worst of it had started to fade, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion.
And underneath that, a restlessness he couldn’t shake.
He should’ve gone to the staff room, maybe grabbed a drink of water or something to eat. But instead, his feet carried him down a familiar hallway, past recovery bays and into the quieter wing where post-triage patients were kept for observation.
He told himself it was just a walk to clear his head. He didn’t even try to believe it.
When he reached room sixteen, he hesitated in the doorway. The light was dim inside, only the soft glow from the monitors painting faint blue lines across the walls.
Scar was asleep.
At least, Grian thought he was. The man’s head was tilted slightly toward the window, one arm wrapped loosely around his middle. His chest rose and fell slowly, steady, alive.
That was all that mattered.
Grian stood there for a long time, just… breathing. Every ounce of fear that had coiled in him at the fire site, the panic when he’d seen the blood, the ash, the way Scar had staggered out of the smoke, it all came flooding back now that he could finally feel it.
He’d been terrified.
More than he wanted to admit, even to himself.
He stepped inside quietly, just far enough to rest his hand against the foot of the bed, like grounding himself.
The monitors beeped softly.
Scar shifted, brow furrowing slightly, not waking, but not entirely still either. His lips moved faintly, and Grian almost thought he heard his own name.
His heart twisted.
“Always finding ways to scare me,” he whispered, voice so quiet it barely existed. “You never did know when to quit, did you?”
He forced a breath, rubbed a hand over his face, and tried to ignore the sting in his eyes.
He wanted to stay. To sit beside the bed until Scar opened his eyes, to see for himself that he was okay. But that wasn’t his place anymore. Not really.
So he straightened, tugged his ID badge back into place, and whispered, “You’re fine. That’s what matters.”
Then he turned to leave.
Before he could take a step, the soft rustle of movement stopped him.
“Grian?”
The voice was hoarse, rough around the edges, but unmistakable.
He froze.
Scar’s eyes were open now, heavy-lidded but focused right on him. A small, tired smile ghosted across his lips. “I knew you couldn’t stay away forever.”
Grian’s throat tightened. “You should be resting.”
“I am,” Scar murmured, shifting just enough to wince. “You just make it hard to keep my eyes closed.”
Grian exhaled through his nose, half a laugh and half an attempt to hold himself together. “You’re insufferable.”
“Maybe,” Scar said softly, “but you still came.”
That hit harder than it should’ve. Grian looked away, trying to summon a retort that didn’t sound like a confession. None came.
“I was… checking on patients,” he said finally. “You just happened to be one of them.”
Scar hummed, unconvinced, but too tired to push it. “Then thanks, doc. For everything.”
Something fragile sat in his tone, gratitude, maybe, or something deeper that neither of them could quite name yet.
Grian nodded once. “Get some sleep, Scar.”
He turned to leave again, and this time Scar didn’t stop him. But as Grian stepped into the hallway, the door clicking softly shut behind him, he felt that ache again, the one that had lived in him ever since they fell apart.
The next morning crept in slow and pale, sunlight cutting through the blinds in thin stripes that stretched across the sterile hospital sheets.
Scar was half-sitting in the bed, his right arm tucked gingerly against his side, wrapped in crisp white bandages that pulled when he breathed too deep. He’d been awake since dawn, bored out of his mind and already plotting ways to escape, or, at least, to make his situation slightly more entertaining.
Dr. Bigb had stopped by earlier with his usual calm authority and sharp humor.
“You’re not going anywhere today,” he’d said while checking Scar’s chart. “You’re under observation until tomorrow morning.”
Scar had protested, naturally. “Come on, Doc. You patched me up too well, I feel fine!”
Bigb just gave him one of those looks that could silence a whole precinct.
“Then consider it a vacation. Some of us would pay for this kind of time off.”
And then he’d walked out before Scar could come up with a clever reply.
Which left Scar with nothing but boredom, a bad daytime talk show on the TV, and far too much time to think.
That’s when the idea hit him.
Impulse, one of the interns, was making his rounds when Scar spotted him outside the door. The man looked far too cheerful for someone surrounded by sick people all day, the perfect target.
“Hey, Impulse!” Scar called, waving him in.
Impulse peeked inside, clipboard in hand. “Morning, Officer Goodtimes. How’s the pain?”
“Manageable,” Scar said with his best disarming grin. “But I could use a favor. You know Dr. Grian, right?”
Impulse blinked. “Uh… yeah, of course. Everyone does.”
“Perfect. Could you let him know his favorite patient’s been asking for him?” Scar added quickly, “nothing urgent.”
Impulse looked like he was trying to decide if this was some kind of test. “So… you want me to… tell him that?”
“Exactly!” Scar said brightly. “You’ll be my hero. Maybe he’ll even smile at you. He’s got a good one, trust me.”
Impulse sputtered something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Right. Okay. I’ll, uh… I’ll pass that along.”
“Legend,” Scar said, giving him a thumbs-up as Impulse beat a hasty retreat down the hall.
Scar leaned back with a satisfied hum. Now it was just a matter of time.
Or so he thought.
By the time Gem came by later that morning, she was visibly done with everything.
“You realize,” she said flatly from the doorway, “that you are driving half the interns insane?”
Scar looked up with wide, innocent eyes. “Me? I’m just recovering peacefully. Maybe chatting with a few new friends.”
Gem crossed her arms. “You’ve sent Impulse, Jimmy, and Dr. Bigb after Dr. Grian. He’s going to find out and kill me just for standing here.”
Scar’s grin softened, a hint of genuine warmth sneaking through his teasing. “He won’t hurt you, Gem. If he’s coming for anyone, it’ll be me, and that’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”
Gem sighed, though her expression softened too, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. “You really don’t know when to quit, huh?”
Scar tilted his head, still smiling. “Not when it comes to things worth holding onto.”
Gem rolled her eyes, muttered something about “hopeless romantics,” and disappeared down the hall.
Scar let out a quiet chuckle, though it faded quickly. The room felt a little emptier after she left, and despite all his charm and schemes, Grian still hadn’t come.
But maybe, just maybe, this time the stubborn doctor would break first.
Meanwhile, in the cafeteria, Grian sat with his lunch half-eaten and a book open in front of him that he hadn’t managed to read more than three sentences of.
Across the table, Cleo and Bigb were mid-argument over the hospital’s abysmal vending machine selection while Martyn picked through a salad, looking far too amused for someone who’d just been ambushed by one of his own patients’ matchmaking attempts.
“So,” Cleo began, her tone deceptively casual, “how long are you planning to keep dodging that patient?”
Grian didn’t look up from his book. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Martyn snorted. “Yeah, you do. Half the interns are terrified to walk into your wing right now.”
Before Grian could reply, Gem appeared at the end of the table, tray in hand, looking frazzled. “Please tell me someone will go deal with your boyfriend before he charms the entire floor into rebellion.”
Grian’s book lowered just enough for him to give her a flat stare. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Gem muttered. “He’s driving everyone insane, Grian. He tried to bribe Impulse with cafeteria pie.”
Martyn choked on his drink, laughing. Bigb just sighed like a man who’d seen this play out before.
Grian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”
“So, you’ll go?” Gem pressed hopefully.
“No,” Grian said firmly.
Gem groaned, dropping her tray onto the table. “You’re impossible.”
Martyn barked a laugh. “The man’s driving you that crazy?”
“You have no idea,” Gem muttered. “He’s sweet about it, but he’s relentless. I think he’s asked for you by name at least six times.”
Cleo grinned. “Oh, that’s adorable.”
“It’s annoying,” Grian corrected sharply, though the way his ears flushed said otherwise. “He’s a grown man, not a child. He knows he needs rest.”
Bigb raised an eyebrow. “He’s also bored out of his mind and half in love with the doctor who keeps avoiding him.”
Grian’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
Bigb smiled over his fork. “You heard me.”
Martyn leaned back in his chair, smirking. “You might as well go see him, mate. He’s not going to stop until you do. And you could use the break from pretending you don’t care.”
Grian shot him a look. “You’re all insufferable.”
Cleo grinned. “And yet, we’re right.”
There was no winning.
He knew that tone, the one his friends used when they’d already decided for him.
With a weary sigh, Grian shut his book and stood. “Fine. But only because I’d rather deal with him myself than have the interns keep ambushing me like caffeinated pigeons.”
Gem let out a victorious “thank you!” while Bigb smirked knowingly as Grian walked off.
When Grian reached Scar’s room, he didn’t knock. He just pushed the door open, crossing his arms the moment Scar turned toward him.
“You,” he said dryly, “are being childish.”
Scar’s face broke into a grin that could’ve powered half the hospital. “Took you long enough.”
Grian stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “You’ve managed to terrorize half my interns in under twenty-four hours.”
Scar pressed a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “Terrorize? I prefer to call it… friendly persuasion.”
“You tried to bribe Impulse with pie.”
Scar shrugged, a motion that clearly tugged at his side despite his best effort to look nonchalant. “Can you blame me? I’ve been abandoned.”
“You’ve been recovering,” Grian corrected, though there was a faint tug of amusement at the edge of his voice. He busied himself checking the monitors, the bandages, anything to avoid Scar’s gaze. “And if you were that desperate for company, you could’ve read a book.”
“I did,” Scar said solemnly. “It was a pamphlet about proper wound care. Riveting stuff.”
Despite himself, Grian’s lips twitched. “You’re impossible.”
Scar’s smile softened. “You used to like that about me.”
Grian’s heart stuttered as he finally looked up. For a beat, they just looked at each other, the air thick with unspoken words. There was the faint beeping of the monitor, the hum of the hospital beyond the door, and somewhere beneath it all, the quiet thrum of everything they hadn’t said since the night it all fell apart.
Scar’s voice broke the silence first, low and careful. “Grian, about what you said yesterday-”
The door burst open. A nurse poked her head in, holding a clipboard. “Dr. Grian? Sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in the OR sooner than expected. Dr. Martyn asked me to page you.”
Grian nodded immediately, shifting back into professional mode. “Understood. Page Jimmy, have him meet me there.”
The nurse left, and silence filled the room again.
Grian turned back to Scar, expression gentler now. “I have to go.”
Scar’s grin faltered. “Will you come back?”
Grian hesitated, fingers curling around the edge of the bedrail. For a heartbeat, it almost looked like he might say yes. Then, quieter, with that same bittersweet edge that always seemed to cling to his words when it came to Scar, he said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. For either of us.”
Scar’s eyes softened. “Grian-”
“Get some rest,” Grian interrupted gently. “That’s what you’re supposed to be doing, remember?”
He managed a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re healing. That’s what matters.”
Then he turned and walked out before Scar could say anything, his chest tight with a heaviness he couldn’t quite shake.
Because even if every instinct screamed at him to stay, to stop pretending, Grian still believed walking away was the right thing to do.
Even if it hurt.
Grian exhaled the second the door closed behind him. For a moment, he just stood there in the corridor, trying to shake the echo of Scar’s voice from his head. Will you come back?
He didn’t have time for this. Not now.
By the time he reached the scrub room, Jimmy was already there, rolling up his sleeves with that eager energy only interns seemed to have.
“Dr. Grian,” Jimmy greeted, eyes bright behind his mask. “Ready for round two? You said I could assist this time.”
Grian nodded, forcing a smile as he began scrubbing in. “I did. You’ve been putting in the work. Let’s see if it pays off.”
They stood side by side at the sinks, the rhythmic sound of running water filling the quiet. The air smelled of soap and steel. Grian focused on the motions, scrub, rinse, repeat, trying not to think about the weight sitting behind his ribs.
After a minute, Jimmy spoke again, softer this time. “You okay, sir? You seem kinda… I don’t know. Off.”
Grian didn’t look up. “I’m fine.” The words came automatically, clipped and practiced.
Jimmy hesitated. “It’s just, usually you joke around before surgery. Today you’re all…” He made a vague hand gesture. “Serious.”
Grian glanced over, brows raised behind his mask. “Jimmy, we’re about to open someone’s chest cavity. Serious is appropriate.”
That earned a sheepish grin. “Fair point.”
Still, the worry in Jimmy’s eyes didn’t fade, even as they stepped into the OR.
The surgery itself went smoothly, steady hands, calm commands, a successful closure. The kind of operation that should’ve left Grian with that familiar rush of satisfaction. But when he peeled off his gloves afterward, the feeling wasn’t there. Just exhaustion.
He and Jimmy moved back to the sinks, scrubbing off the remnants of sterilizer and adrenaline. The sound of running water filled the silence again.
Then Jimmy cleared his throat. “Dr. Grian?”
“Yes?”
“I know it’s not really my place,” Jimmy said carefully, eyes fixed on the faucet. “But I just wanted to say… if something is wrong, you don’t have to handle it alone.”
Grian stilled. The water ran over his hands, hot against his skin.
Jimmy glanced at him, nervous but sincere. “I mean, I get it, none of my business I know, but it’s kinda obvious you’ve got a lot on your mind lately. And well, I wanted you to know I’m here. If you ever need to talk. Or vent. Or throw a scalpel at the wall, I’ll pretend I didn’t see it.”
Despite himself, Grian let out a soft laugh, quiet but real. He turned off the water, drying his hands slowly. “That’s very kind of you, Jimmy.”
He hesitated, eyes on the towel. “I appreciate it. Really. It’s just complicated.”
Jimmy nodded, a touch of understanding flickering across his face. “Complicated’s still allowed to hurt, sir.”
Grian looked up then, something fragile flickering behind his tired eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it is.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Grian straightened, pushing the mask down around his neck. “Come on. Let’s check on post-op before you start giving me emotional advice instead of surgical notes.”
Jimmy grinned faintly, following him out. “No promises, Dr. Grian.”
And as they walked down the hall, Grian found himself almost smiling, tired, heartsore, but grateful all the same.
The rest of Grian’s shift blurred together after that, mercifully, almost numbly. He moved through a few routine patient checks, offering clipped reassurances and adjusting charts with the kind of automatic precision that came only from years of practice. Mrs. Watcher cornered him in her room for a solid ten minutes, insisting he take a cookie “before he worked himself into the ground.” Grian accepted it mostly so she’d stop fussing, though he ate it on the walk back to the nurses’ station and found it was actually… pretty good.
Another emergency rolled in not long after, pulling him back into scrubs and under bright surgical lights. He focused hard on the work, on the careful choreography of an OR, on anything that wasn’t the memory of Scar looking at him like he still mattered. The surgery went well, the kind that normally left him energized, but today it only added to the dull ache behind his ribs.
By the time the adrenaline ebbed, evening was bleeding into night, the hospital settling into its quieter hum. Grian kept himself moving, finishing notes, checking vitals, offering a few tired smiles to the staff who crossed his path. He told himself the pace helped. He told himself he was doing the right thing by staying busy, by not going back to Scar’s room no matter how much his feet wanted to turn in that direction.
Wanting wasn’t the same as choosing, he reminded himself. And choosing distance, choosing the safe option, was better for both of them.
Or at least, that’s what he tried to believe as he finally shut down his workstation and rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes. It was one of those nights every doctor at this hospital knew well, the kind where going home made less sense than grabbing a blanket from the supply cabinet and claiming a bunk in the staff room. He had a scheduled surgery first thing in the morning, and staying overnight was easier, normal, expected.
So Grian headed down the dim hallway toward the staff quarters, his steps slow, his chest heavy, the hum of the hospital settling around him like a reminder and a refuge all at once.
Morning came with the too-bright sting of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of carts in the hallway.
Scar adjusted the strap of the small duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his good shoulder, the one that wasn’t bruised or bandaged, trying not to tug at the stitches along his side. The nurse had gone over his discharge papers twice, fussed over the clean wrappings across his ribs, and warned him that if he overdid it, he’d be right back in the same bed by nightfall.
Don’t strain your stitches. Don’t bend too far. Don’t skip your meds. And for the love of all things sterile, go home and rest.
Scar, naturally, had no intention of doing that last part.
He walked down the corridor slowly, faint traces of smoke long washed from his hair but not from his mind. The chaos of the explosion still echoed in flashes, heat, shouting, sirens, and then Grian’s hands on him, steady and shaking all at once.
That image hadn’t left him.
And that was exactly why he couldn’t leave yet.
He had to find him.
The first stop was the reception desk. The nurse there blinked in mild surprise to see him out of his room, already dressed in fresh clothes instead of a hospital gown.
“Officer Goodtimes,” she said, looking over her glasses. “You’re supposed to be discharged, not wandering the halls.”
Scar smiled, leaning casually against the counter, or at least pretending to. “You make it sound like I’m sneaking out of prison.”
“Considering the number of nurses who had to keep you in bed during your stay, it’s not far off.”
“Fair,” Scar admitted, grin unfazed. “Listen, I’m looking for Dr. Grian. You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s working today?”
Her brows lifted. “I’m not at liberty to give out staff locations.”
“Not even if I say please?”
“Not even then.”
Scar sighed dramatically. “Alright, worth a try.”
He pushed off the counter and headed down the hallway. He wasn’t about to give up that easily.
A familiar voice caught his attention, Impulse, clipboard tucked under one arm, clearly in a rush. Perfect timing.
“Impulse!” Scar called out, quickening his pace just enough to catch up.
Impulse looked startled. “Officer Goodtimes? You’re still here? Bigb said you’d been discharged already.”
“Yeah, technically,” Scar said, grinning. “But I have one small errand to run before I head out.”
Impulse narrowed his eyes immediately. “Does this errand happen to involve Dr. Grian?”
“Now, why would you assume that?”
Impulse gave him a look that could rival Grian’s best unimpressed stare. “Because you’ve been trying to corner him since you got here.”
Scar shrugged, feigning innocence. “I just want to talk. Civilly. Maybe with a little charm.”
“You tried to bribe me with pie last time.”
Scar reached into his duffel and pulled out a familiar foil-wrapped slice. “And it worked, didn’t it?”
Impulse groaned. “You’re ridiculous.”
Scar’s grin widened. “But effective. So, can you quietly find out where he is for me? No alarms, no warnings, just a casual little check-in?”
Impulse sighed, snatching the pie. “I’m an intern, not a spy.”
“You’re a hero, Impulse. Remember that.”
“Yeah, yeah. Try not to get thrown out for loitering.”
Scar chuckled as the intern walked off, shaking his head. He moved through the corridors again, careful not to jostle his side, though every sharp step reminded him he wasn’t fully healed.
Still, he pressed on.
He passed the nurses’ station, a few familiar faces nodding politely but with that faint look that said, you shouldn’t be here. Scar smiled back anyway, because that was easier than explaining why he couldn’t quite make himself leave.
Then he saw him.
At the far end of the hall, just beyond the bustle of med carts and the steady flow of patients, Grian stepped out of a room, clipboard in hand, hair slightly mussed, white coat flaring with his movement.
Scar’s breath caught.
It had been only a few hours, but somehow, seeing him like this again, focused, professional, composed, hit harder than it should have.
And then, as if fate enjoyed twisting the knife, another doctor approached him. One Scar recognized instantly.
Tall, sharp, far too comfortable in his skin, the same man who’d once hovered too close to Grian back when Scar and he were together. The one who smiled like every conversation was a game he’d already won.
Even from this distance, Scar saw the way he leaned in, the way Grian’s polite expression didn’t quite hide his discomfort.
The elevator doors slid open behind them, and the doctor gestured for Grian to step in first.
Scar froze.
For a moment, he thought about calling out, but the words jammed in his throat.
Instead, he stood there helplessly as the doors closed between them.
He exhaled slowly, forcing down the spike of jealousy burning through his chest.
For a moment, he stayed where he was. Then, with a quiet curse, he pushed himself upright. The hallway buzzed faintly with morning noise, wheels of gurneys squeaking, intercoms chirping but Scar barely noticed. He needed to move, to do something other than sit here and stew in the mess of emotions swirling inside him.
He made his way down the corridor, limping slightly on instinct even though his side wasn’t hurting much anymore, just sore. He found a small alcove near the nurses’ station, a cluster of chairs under a humming light, and sank into one. The sterile air felt heavy, pressing in on him. He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it through his hair with a sigh.
Maybe Impulse would have better luck finding out where Grian went. Scar could wait. He’d waited for worse.
A few minutes later, Impulse rounded the corner, still in his scrubs and looking faintly amused. “Found him,” he said. “He’s scrubbing into surgery right now. Cardio, I think. Could be anywhere between an hour and five, depending on how long it goes.”
Scar leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling tiles. “Of course it is.”
Impulse gave a sympathetic half-smile. “You gonna wait?”
Scar huffed softly. “Guess I don’t have anywhere else to be.”
Impulse clapped him gently on the shoulder before heading off again, leaving Scar alone with the quiet hum of the hospital.
He stared at his hands for a while, the faint marks from IV tape still clinging to his skin, and then let his head fall back against the wall. The minutes crawled by, his thoughts unwillingly turning over the past, piece by piece.
The fight they had came back sharp and clear, like a wound that never quite healed. He could still hear Grian’s voice, exhausted and frayed at the edges after another long night waiting for a text that Scar had made it home alive.
It had been one of those arguments that started small and snowballed fast, a comment about him getting hurt again on the job, Scar brushing it off, Grian pushing back. He’d been defensive, stubborn, too proud to admit that maybe Grian had a point.
He hadn’t seen it then, how scared Grian really was. How those sleepless nights weren’t born from frustration but from fear. Fear that one day, that phone call would come and Scar wouldn’t be around to answer it.
And Scar, stupidly, had let him walk out.
He’d watched Grian grab his jacket, eyes glassy and jaw tight, and instead of going after him, Scar had just stood there, too hurt, too angry, too confused to bridge the distance between them. He’d told himself Grian was overreacting, that he couldn’t just stop doing his job because it scared him. He’d told himself they’d both cool off, that they’d talk later.
But later never came.
Scar dragged a hand over his face again, chest tight with the memory.
And then came the explosion, the incident that almost proved Grian right.
He could still see it vividly, the chaos, the smoke, the woman’s terrified face as he carried her out, the sting in his side where the debris had cut deep. And then Grian, his Grian, suddenly there in the flashing red of emergency lights, kneeling beside him in the wreckage. His hands had trembled as he pressed gauze against the wound on Scar’s side, his voice low but sharp, quivering with anger and fear.
“You could’ve died in there.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You never think it’ll happen until it almost does. You keep doing this, and one day I won’t get the call that you made it out.”
Those words still echoed in Scar’s mind, sharper than the sting of any wound.
Scar had thought he understood risk, that it was part of who he was, what he did. But seeing Grian’s hands shake as he worked to keep him stable… that had been different. That had hit somewhere deep, somewhere he didn’t know how to protect.
He hadn’t meant to scare him. He’d just wanted to help people. But now, sitting in this too-bright hospital with the faint scent of antiseptic in the air, Scar finally let himself admit it: maybe he’d been reckless with more than his life.
Maybe he’d been reckless with Grian’s heart, too.
He let out a slow breath and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Maybe today, when Grian came out of that OR, he could finally start fixing that
Time had slowed to a crawl.
Scar had lost track of how long he’d been sitting there, an hour, maybe more. The steady rhythm of hospital life moved around him in waves: the squeak of shoes on polished floors, the murmur of nurses trading reports, the faint hiss of an espresso machine somewhere down the hall. Every sound blurred into background noise.
He’d tried distracting himself, watching the orderly at the far end of the corridor switch out IV poles, counting the number of tiles between his feet and the wall. But his mind kept circling back, again and again, to one thought: Grian.
When he finally saw him again, it was almost by accident.
Across the lobby, Grian stood at the front counter, head bent slightly as he filled out a chart. His hair was still a little mussed from the scrub cap, a few strands falling forward as he scribbled a note, lips pressed together in quiet focus. He looked tired, not the kind of tired sleep could fix, but the kind that came from carrying too much for too long.
Scar’s chest ached at the sight.
He pushed himself to his feet before he could second-guess it. He didn’t have a plan, didn’t have the right words yet, he just knew he needed to talk to him. To finally close the space between them.
But then someone else got there first.
The same doctor from earlier, tall, polished, confident, strolled up beside Grian, clipboard tucked casually under his arm. Even from across the room, Scar caught the easy smirk that tugged at his mouth. The doctor said something, Scar couldn’t hear what and Grian looked up, politely attentive, professional as ever.
The man leaned just slightly closer as he spoke, the motion small but deliberate. His hand brushed the counter beside Grian’s arm, too close to be casual, and Scar’s jaw tightened.
It was subtle, a tilt of the head, a grin that lingered too long, the faintest flicker of familiarity that made Scar’s stomach twist.
Grian didn’t step back. He didn’t even seem to notice.
Scar did.
Something in him snapped, not loud, not violent, just that sharp, possessive ache that rose before he could stop it. He’d spent the last few days trying to keep his emotions in check, trying to be patient, reasonable, calm. But seeing that look, that quiet confidence aimed at Grian, stripped every ounce of restraint away.
He started walking before he even realized he was moving.
Grian had just finished the post-op notes when he felt the weight of exhaustion settle in his shoulders. The surgery had gone well, long, but clean, and all he wanted now was to sign off the last few forms, hand them over to the front desk, and maybe, get another cup of coffee before the next case rolled in.
He leaned against the counter, jotting down the final entry on the patient’s recovery chart when he heard footsteps behind him.
“Dr. Grian,” came a familiar voice, smooth, practiced.
He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The same doctor who always seemed to have something to say when the day was ending, whose smile lingered too long, whose charm had long worn thin.
“Hey,” the man said, stepping up beside him. “Heard about the surgery, four-hour reconstructive, right? You’re becoming the hospital’s favorite miracle worker.”
“Mm.” Grian didn’t look up, his pen scratching across the page. “Just doing my job.”
The doctor chuckled, undeterred. “You make it sound so simple. If it were me, I’d be bragging.”
Grian hummed noncommittally, already halfway tuned out. His focus stayed on the paper, eyes scanning for any missed detail. Small talk after a four-hour surgery was the last thing he had energy for.
He barely registered when the doctor leaned in slightly, murmuring something else, a compliment, maybe, or another attempt to draw him into conversation. Grian just gave a polite nod, eyes still fixed on his chart.
And then, all at once, someone caught his wrist.
The touch wasn’t rough, firm but careful, and before he could react, he was being pulled gently but insistently away from the counter. The clipboard nearly slipped from his hand as he turned in surprise, eyes darting to his wrist, then up to the person holding it.
“Scar?”
His voice came out sharper than he meant, startled and confused.
Scar didn’t answer. His jaw was set, eyes hard but unreadable. He didn’t look angry, not exactly, but something simmered there, quiet and tense.
“Scar, what-”
He didn’t get the chance to finish. Scar was already leading him down the hall, weaving through the half-empty corridor with single-minded purpose. It wasn’t forceful, Scar’s grip was still gentle, his thumb unconsciously brushing against the inside of Grian’s wrist, a small, grounding pressure, but it was enough to tell Grian that whatever this was, Scar wasn’t letting go until he said what he needed to say.
They stopped in front of one of the smaller supply rooms, the kind of closet tucked between departments that most staff barely noticed. Scar pushed the door open, guided Grian inside, and then shut it behind them with a quiet click.
The hum of the fluorescent light filled the silence. Shelves lined the walls, gauze, saline, spare equipment, but Grian hardly noticed any of it. His pulse was still thrumming from the suddenness of it all.
Scar finally let go.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Grian stared at him, trying to piece together the look on his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands hovered uselessly at his sides, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them now.
“Scar,” Grian said quietly, his voice softer this time. “You’re supposed to be home.”
Scar’s eyes met his. There was something raw there now, not anger, not even frustration. Just that fierce, unguarded emotion that Grian had seen a hundred times before, the one that used to make his heart stutter and his breath catch.
“Why are you still here?” he asked, his tone gentler but edged with concern. “You were discharged hours ago. You shouldn’t even be-”
Scar finally spoke, low and rough, cutting through his words.
“I couldn’t leave.”
The words hung in the space between them, simple and heavy all at once.
Grian blinked, caught off guard. “You, what?”
Scar took a slow breath, stepping closer not enough to touch, but enough that Grian could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of antiseptic and smoke still clinging to his shirt.
“I couldn’t,” Scar said quietly. “Not without talking to you.”
Grian’s chest tightened. He wanted to tell him that now wasn’t the time, that this wasn’t how things should happen, but the words wouldn’t come.
Scar’s gaze flicked down briefly, then back up, something shifting behind his eyes. “And then I saw you,” he said softly. “With him.”
The meaning sank in instantly.
Ah. That’s what this was.
For a heartbeat, Grian just stared at him, the words landing like a quiet spark in dry air.
“With him?” he echoed, the confusion sharp but softening almost instantly as he saw it, the tightness in Scar’s jaw, the shadow in his eyes. Jealousy. Not loud or volatile, just the quiet, aching kind that came from someone who still cared too much.
Grian exhaled slowly, setting the clipboard down on the nearest shelf. “Scar…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Please tell me you didn’t drag me into a supply closet because you saw me talking to another doctor.”
Scar’s expression flickered, the tension in his shoulders barely easing. “I didn’t,” he began, but stopped, the rest of the sentence falling apart somewhere between his teeth and his breath. He raked a hand through his hair, looking away for a moment, then back again. “Maybe I did.”
The honesty in it, unpolished, unguarded, caught Grian off guard.
“Scar,” he said quietly, “you can’t just-”
“I know,” Scar interrupted, his voice lower now, steadier but frayed around the edges. “I know I can’t. It’s just, seeing him, looking at you like that.” He broke off with a small shake of his head, frustrated. “It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. It always does.”
Grian blinked at him, startled by the crack in his tone. For a long, quiet second, he didn’t know what to say. The tension that had been simmering between them for nearly a year sat heavy in the air, pressing at all the places they’d never quite healed.
Scar’s gaze found his again, raw and searching. “When we fought, when you said you couldn’t do it anymore. You weren’t angry because of me. You were scared.” he said softly. “That’s what you were trying to say before, wasn’t it?”
Grian froze. The words hit deeper than he expected, simple but devastatingly true.
He took a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I was scared.”
Scar’s brow furrowed, guilt and recognition passing over his face.
“I was scared every single time you left for work,” Grian continued, his voice trembling despite the quiet. “Every time the phone rang late at night, I thought it was that call. That they were going to tell me you didn’t make it back.”
He looked at Scar then, eyes soft but tired, the truth finally finding its way out. “You’d come home bruised, bleeding, smiling like it was nothing, and I just couldn’t do it anymore, Scar. I couldn’t keep pretending that watching you almost die over and over again was normal.”
Scar swallowed hard, his eyes glinting under the harsh fluorescent light. “I thought you were just done with me,” he murmured. “That you were tired of it, of me. I didn’t see it for what it was. I didn’t see you.”
“I never stopped caring,” Grian said quietly. “That’s the problem.”
The confession hung between them, heavy and unspoken in all the ways that mattered most. The hum of the overhead lights filled the silence, soft and constant, while somewhere down the hall, a distant intercom crackled to life, a reminder that the world outside this little room was still moving.
Scar’s jaw clenched, a tremor sliding through his fingers. “And I didn’t realize that until I saw your face that day.” His breath hitched. “When you were patching me up after the explosion.”
Silence settled, fragile, almost reverent, as the truth finally cracked open between them.
“I should’ve stopped you that night,” Scar said, his voice rough. “When you left. I should’ve gone after you, should’ve made you stay long enough to talk. But I was angry. Too proud to admit I was scared too. I let you walk out that door because it was easier than admitting how much I needed you.”
Scar swallowed hard, his eyes searching Grian's as though he were still afraid he'd already gone too far. Slowly, almost cautiously, he lifted a hand.
He hesitated just before touching him, giving Grian every opportunity to step back.
Grian didn't.
Scar's fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek, his thumb tracing the faintest arc across warm skin. The touch was impossibly gentle, carrying none of the urgency from earlier. Just quiet certainty, and months of longing that neither of them had ever truly managed to bury.
"I've missed you," Scar admitted, his voice rough around the edges. "Every day."
Grian's eyes fluttered closed for only a second before he leaned, almost unconsciously, into the warmth of Scar's hand.
A soft, humorless laugh escaped him.
"You think I've been any better?"
His own hand found Scar's wrist, fingers curling loosely around it as though grounding himself in the familiar weight of him.
"I buried myself in work," he said quietly. "Long surgeries. Extra shifts. Anything that kept me here." He glanced around the cramped supply room before looking back at Scar with a tired smile. "Anything that meant I didn't have to go home and think about us."
The confession settled gently between them.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment. They simply stood there, unwilling to break the fragile closeness they'd finally found again.
Finally, Scar drew in a slow breath.
"I don't want to keep pretending I can do this without you anymore." His thumb brushed absent circles against Grian's cheek.
"If you'll let me..." His voice faltered for just a moment before steadying again. "I'd like to try again."
Grian searched his face in silence. He wasn't looking for certainty. He wasn't looking for impossible promises, either. They both knew better than that. He was looking for honesty.
Scar seemed to understand. "I can't promise I'll never get hurt," he said softly. "But I can promise I won't pretend I'm invincible anymore."
His gaze never left Grian's.
"I'll let you worry, I'll listen when you tell me you're scared, and I'll do everything I can to make it home."
Slowly, a small, shaky smile found its way onto Grian's face. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that." It was barely above a whisper.
Grian was the one who closed the distance first.
The kiss was nothing like the desperation they'd both been carrying for months. It was gentle, unhurried, filled with quiet relief instead of fear. Scar's hand slipped naturally to the back of Grian's neck while Grian rested one hand against Scar's chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his palm as though reassuring himself that he was really there.
When they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far. Their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the small space between them.
A quiet smile tugged at Grian's lips.
"So..." he murmured, "does this mean we're trying again?"
Scar's answering smile was softer than Grian had seen in months, warm enough to chase away the last of the tension that had settled between them.
"If you'll have me."
Grian let out a quiet laugh, his eyes bright despite the exhaustion still lingering there.
"I was hoping you'd ask."
For a while, neither of them spoke. They simply stood there, content to let the silence say everything they no longer needed words for. The silence between them no longer felt heavy. It settled around them easily now, comfortable in a way Grian hadn't realized he'd missed until this moment.
Eventually, he let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head.
"You know," he murmured, "for someone who's supposed to be recovering, you really have a flair for the dramatic."
Scar's lips curled into an easy smile. "I prefer to think of it as a dramatic reconciliation."
Grian hummed, pretending to consider it.
"Mm. Pretty sure jealousy had something to do with it."
Scar groaned softly, dropping his forehead against Grian's again for just a second.
"Oh, don't start."
"I'm just saying." Grian's smile widened. "You did drag me into a supply closet because another doctor was talking to me."
"I dragged you in here because I needed to talk to you."
"And because another doctor was talking to me."
Scar was quiet for a beat.
"...Maybe."
Grian laughed, the sound warm and genuine.
Scar rolled his eyes, though there was no real annoyance behind it.
"He was flirting with you."
"He was talking."
"He was flirting while talking."
Grian tilted his head, unable to hide the amusement in his expression.
"So you were jealous."
Scar let out an exaggerated sigh. "I was having a very heartfelt conversation."
"You can have heartfelt conversations and be jealous at the same time."
"I don't appreciate being psychoanalyzed."
"I'm a surgeon, not a psychologist."
"Could've fooled me."
Another laugh escaped Grian before he reached up, absentmindedly straightening Scar's slightly crooked collar. The gesture was small, familiar, something he'd done countless times before without thinking.
"There," he said quietly. "Much better."
Scar watched him with an expression so openly fond it made Grian's ears warm.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that's making me suspicious."
Scar's smile only deepened. "I just missed this."
Grian's expression softened. "So did I."
The words settled gently between them.
For the first time in a long time, the tension between them felt easy again.
They lingered a little longer in the storage room, reluctant to break the quiet. Eventually, Grian exhaled, straightened his coat, and gave Scar a pointed look.
“You really should be resting,” he said, though the fondness in his voice made it impossible to sound stern.
Scar smiled, that familiar lopsided grin that always softened Grian’s edges. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go home. Eventually.”
“Now,” Grian corrected, pressing a hand lightly to his chest to nudge him toward the door. “Doctor’s orders.”
Scar chuckled, following obediently, though his eyes still lingered on Grian like he wasn’t ready to look away yet. “You know, I used to think you giving orders was just part of the job,” he said, teasing. “Now I think you secretly enjoy bossing me around.”
Grian smirked. “You think too much for someone who got discharged.”
They stepped back into the corridor, the low hum of the hospital swallowing them up again, nurses moving briskly, monitors beeping in distant rooms, the faint echo of hurried footsteps down the hall. It felt strange, being back out in the open, like the world hadn’t noticed it had just shifted slightly for the two of them.
They walked side by side, their hands brushing now and then, neither quite bold enough to hold on but neither pulling away either.
And, as fate would have it, when they turned the corner near the nurses’ station, there he was. The same doctor from earlier, clipboard in hand, chatting with a colleague.
He looked up just as they passed. His gaze flicked briefly to Grian, then to Scar beside him.
Scar noticed. Of course he did.
But this time, there was no flash of jealousy, no tension in his shoulders. Just a calm sort of amusement.
As they reached the end of the hall, Scar slowed, turning to Grian. “Guess this is my cue to finally go home before someone writes me up for loitering.”
Grian’s smile softened. “Probably wise.”
Scar leaned in, close enough that Grian could smell the faint trace of antiseptic and his cologne. “Then I’d better say goodbye properly,” he murmured.
And before Grian could respond, Scar kissed him, a quick affectionate press of lips, the kind that was as much a promise as it was a farewell. Not possessive, not for show, but the timing couldn’t have been better.
When Scar pulled back, his eyes flicked briefly over Grian’s shoulder, meeting the doctor’s gaze for just a second. His grin turned just the slightest bit smug, though his tone stayed perfectly casual as he said, “See you soon, Dr. G.”
Grian blinked, fighting a smile that threatened to break through. “You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath.
Scar winked. “Yeah, but you keep letting me kiss you, so I must be doing something right.”
And with that, he turned down the hall, the faint swing in his step betraying just how pleased he was with himself.
Grian watched him go, shaking his head, an unwilling smile tugging at his lips. When he finally glanced back, the attending was pretending to focus very intently on his clipboard.
“Good timing,” Grian murmured to himself, suppressing a quiet laugh as he turned toward his next chart.
For the first time in a long while, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like loss. It felt like hope, messy, stubborn, and entirely theirs.
A week later
The hospital was quieter than usual. Most of the interns were crowded into the observation gallery for one of Dr. Bigb’s notoriously complex reconstructions, leaving the hallways oddly still.
Scar found himself standing outside one of the smaller exam rooms, paperwork in hand, trying to decide whether to knock or just walk in.
He went for knocking, mostly because he knew exactly who was waiting on the other side.
“Come in,” came Grian’s voice, clipped but calm, the familiar tone of someone deep in work mode.
Scar pushed the door open with his good arm and smiled. “Dr. Grian,” he said with mock formality. “Long time no see.”
Grian looked up from his tablet, a small, involuntary smile flickering across his face before he caught it and replaced it with a professional one. “Officer Goodtimes. You’re right on time for your follow-up.”
“Punctuality,” Scar said lightly, stepping in and closing the door behind him, “one of my many redeeming qualities.”
Grian arched an eyebrow, motioning for him to sit on the exam table. “You’re just saying that because I’m holding your medical clearance hostage.”
Scar laughed, the sound filling the quiet room. “Maybe a little. But also because it’s true.”
Grian rolled his eyes but his smile lingered as he set the tablet aside and stepped closer. “All right, let’s have a look. Shirt off, please.”
“Normally, I’d at least expect dinner first,” Scar said with an exaggerated sigh, earning a sharp but amused glance from Grian.
“Scar.”
“Right, right. Professional setting, no flirting.” He raised his hand in mock surrender, though the mischievous glint in his eyes didn’t fade as he tugged his shirt carefully over his head.
Grian’s expression softened a little as he examined the healing wounds along Scar’s side and shoulder. The bruising had faded to a muted yellow, and the stitches were clean and flat, neat lines that spoke to Grian’s steady hands from the week before.
“You’ve been keeping up with the cleaning and rest?” Grian asked, leaning closer to check the sutures.
Scar’s lips quirked. “More or less. I might’ve overexerted myself lifting a grocery bag, but in my defense, that milk was very heavy.”
Grian huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re lucky it’s healing well. Everything looks good, no signs of infection, minimal swelling. You’re almost cleared for light work.”
“Almost?” Scar tilted his head, pretending to look wounded. “What do I need to do to earn that last bit of clearance? Bribe the doctor? Compliment his impeccable bedside manner?”
Grian didn’t look up, but the faint color in his ears betrayed him. “You could try following instructions for once.”
Scar grinned. “That’s a tall order, G.”
Grian finally glanced up, meeting his gaze and just like that, the clinical air between them cracked a little.
Scar smiled softly. “You know,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s a little unfair how good you look when you’re trying so hard to stay professional.”
“Scar…” Grian warned, but it came out weaker than intended.
Scar chuckled quietly, leaning just enough to brush his thumb along Grian’s wrist where it rested against his shoulder. “You're awfully pretty when you're pretending not to blush.”
Before Grian could roll his eyes again, Scar caught his gaze and leaned forward, pressing a brief, warm kiss to his lips quick enough to be fleeting, gentle enough not to disrupt the quiet of the room.
When he pulled back, Grian blinked once, trying not to smile. “You really don’t know how to behave in a hospital, do you?”
Scar smirked. “Oh, I behave fine. Just… not always in the way you expect.”
Grian shook his head but couldn’t suppress a quiet laugh. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I’m very lucky,” Scar agreed easily, the teasing giving way to genuine warmth.
Grian sighed, picking up his tablet again to finalize the notes. “Well, Officer Goodtimes, I’m officially clearing you for light duty. Try not to get yourself into trouble your first day back.”
Scar watched him for a moment, the humor in his eyes softening into something gentler. He noticed it then, that tiny flicker of worry just behind Grian’s professionalism, the way his shoulders hadn’t quite relaxed since he’d started talking about work.
Instead of the grin Grian expected, Scar’s voice came quiet. “Actually… I think I might take a few more days off.”
Grian paused, looking up. “Really? You’ve been itching to get back to work since the second day.”
Scar shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, but I think I’d rather spend some of that time with someone else. Maybe a certain overworked surgeon who could use a coffee break or two.”
Grian blinked, surprised for a beat, then the softest, most unguarded smile spread across his face. “You’d skip going back to work for me?”
“Absolutely,” Scar said, eyes crinkling with warmth, “I think I’d rather be careful than lucky.”
Grian laughed quietly, shaking his head as he stepped closer, his voice gentler now. “You really meant it, didn’t you? About being more careful.”
Scar reached up, brushing his fingers against Grian’s hand. “I did. And I still do.”
Grian squeezed his hand lightly, a rare softness in his tone. “Then I’d love to take you up on that coffee. Maybe after my rounds.”
“Perfect,” Scar said, smiling wider now. “It’s a date.”
Grian pretended to scribble something on his tablet. “You mean a follow-up consultation.”
Scar laughed. “Sure, doc. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Grian rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling as Scar tugged his shirt back on.
“Hold on,” Grian said suddenly before Scar could reach the door.
Scar paused, hand on the knob, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Hmm? What’s up, doc?”
“I only have one more person left on my rounds,” Grian said, glancing down at his tablet, then back up. “Then I can take my break. You can come with me if you want.”
Scar blinked, half-amused. “You’re inviting me to tag along on your rounds? That’s a big honor, doctor.”
“Don’t make it sound like I’m offering you a grand tour,” Grian said, fighting a smile. “It’s just a short visit before Mrs. Watcher gets discharged.”
“Mrs. Watcher?” Scar repeated, curious. “Is she the one you were talking about the other night? The one who bullies the interns for fun?”
Grian’s lips twitched. “That would be the one. She’s been asking to meet you.”
Scar tilted his head, intrigued. “Me?”
“Well,” Grian said, tapping his tablet to lock it, “I may have… mentioned you once or twice.”
Scar’s grin spread instantly. “Oh, really? My reputation precedes me, then?”
Grian snorted. “Something like that. Come on before she starts telling Gem I’ve forgotten her tea again.”
Scar followed him down the hall, his gait relaxed, one hand brushing lightly against Grian’s as they walked. The hospital was quieter now, the hum of fluorescent lights echoing through mostly empty corridors.
When they reached room four-twelve, Grian gave a quick knock before stepping inside.
Mrs. Watcher looked up from the crossword puzzle in her lap, her sharp eyes immediately brightening. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite trouble-magnet,” she said cheerfully. “Oh!- Is this the famous Scar?”
Grian sighed in mock defeat. “You didn’t even let me introduce him.”
Mrs. Watcher waved a hand. “Please, dear, I’ve heard enough stories to recognize him by description alone.” She turned her attention to Scar, smiling warmly. “So you’re the one keeping my doctor up at night worrying.”
Scar chuckled, stepping closer to her bedside. “Guilty as charged, ma’am. But I’m trying to improve my record.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mrs. Watcher’s gaze twinkled with mischief. “See that you do. He’s a good one, you know. Worth slowing down for.”
Grian looked mildly scandalized. “Mrs. Watcher-”
“Oh, hush,” she said, waving him off. “Doctors never listen to good advice, but I’m still going to give it. You two look happy, and that makes these old bones glad.”
Scar laughed, genuine and soft. “Thank you, ma’am. I think I’ll keep him, if he’ll have me.”
Mrs. Watcher beamed. “Smart man.”
Grian could only shake his head, though the fondness in his eyes betrayed him completely. “She’s impossible,” he murmured, pretending to check the monitors even though everything was perfectly fine.
“Delightfully so,” Mrs. Watcher countered. “Now, doctor, don’t you have discharge paperwork to finish? I’d like to go home before the next ice age.”
“On it,” Grian said with a smile, quickly reviewing her chart. “Vitals look great, mobility’s good. You’re officially free to terrorize the general public again.”
Mrs. Watcher grinned, leaning back against her pillows. “You hear that, Scar? He makes it sound like I’ve been in jail.”
Scar smirked. “If it means I get visiting privileges, I’m not complaining.”
Grian gave him a look, half amused, half warning, which only made Mrs. Watcher laugh harder. “Oh, I like him. Keep him around, Grian. He’s got charm.”
Scar placed a hand over his heart, pretending to bow. “See? Someone appreciates me.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Grian muttered, but his smile softened as he signed the discharge forms and set the chart down. “Alright, Mrs. Watcher. Gem will be by soon to walk you through your paperwork.”
“Thank you, dear,” she said, reaching out to pat his hand. “And thank you, young man, for making sure my favorite doctor smiles again.”
Scar’s expression gentled. “Anytime, ma’am.”
They lingered a moment longer before stepping back into the hallway. The door closed softly behind them, leaving the bustle of the hospital muffled for a beat.
Scar looked over at Grian, his smile warm. “She’s wonderful.”
“She’s a menace,” Grian corrected automatically, though his tone betrayed the affection in it. “But, yeah. She’s one of the good ones.”
They started walking again, slow, unhurried.
Scar glanced sideways at him. “So, rounds are officially done?”
Grian nodded. “Just finished.”
“Perfect,” Scar said, voice light. “Then I believe you promised me a break.”
Grian shot him a knowing look. “You mean you offered to take a few more days off.”
“Details, details,” Scar teased. Then, seeing that tiny, lingering worry still tucked behind Grian’s smile, he reached over and gently brushed his fingers along Grian’s hand. “Hey. I meant it. I’m taking it easy this time. Just coffee, conversation, and maybe convincing you to laugh a little more.”
Grian looked at him for a long moment, his expression softening. “That sounds perfect,” he said quietly.
Scar’s grin widened, and he offered his arm in mock gallantry. “Then lead the way, Dr. Grian. Coffee’s on me.”
Grian rolled his eyes again, but his laugh was light as he looped his arm through Scar’s. “You’d better not make me regret this, Officer Goodtimes.”
Scar leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “Oh, you won’t. I’m officially on my best behavior.”
And as they walked down the corridor together, past the echoing monitors, past the sunlight filtering through the windows, the weight that had hung between them for so long finally felt like it was gone.
For once, Grian didn’t worry about what came next. Scar was still here, smiling beside him, careful, steady, and his.
Later that day
The city had settled into the soft lull of late afternoon. The hospital loomed in the distance, its glass façade catching the gold of the lowering sun, but out here, just across the street in the small park that edged the lot, the world felt quieter.
Grian sat on a bench under the shade of a sprawling oak, still in his scrubs but with his white coat folded beside him.
Scar returned a minute later, two cups balanced precariously in his good hand and a grin that made it clear he’d nearly dropped them twice on the walk over.
“Mission accomplished,” he announced, handing one over. “The barista didn’t even yell at me for holding up the line this time.”
Grian took the cup, shaking his head. “That’s because you talked your way out of trouble again.”
“Strategic charm,” Scar corrected, settling down beside him. “It’s a skill.”
“Mm. A dangerous one.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, the city sounds humming softly in the background, traffic in the distance, birds darting through the trees, the faint hiss of the espresso machine from the café across the street.
Scar leaned back against the bench, his arm brushing lightly against Grian’s. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I think this might be the first time in months I’ve sat still long enough to notice the sunset.”
Grian glanced at him, smiling faintly. “You’re really not used to slowing down, are you?”
Scar chuckled under his breath. “Not even a little. But… I’m learning.”
He turned his head, eyes meeting Grian’s, steady, sincere. “You helped with that.”
Grian looked away for a second, his smile softening. “You’re the one who did the hard part, Scar. You made the choice.”
Scar’s voice lowered, gentle. “Yeah, but I made it because I didn’t want to lose you again.”
Grian’s breath caught, but he didn’t look away this time. “You’re not going to,” he said quietly.
That made Scar’s grin return, smaller, but brighter. He shifted just enough to nudge Grian’s shoulder playfully. “Careful, G. If you keep saying things like that, I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”
Grian huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Scar said, leaning closer, “you’re still here.”
Grian opened his mouth for a retort, but Scar kissed him instead, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything, just lingered. When they parted, Grian was smiling, shaking his head as if it was hopeless to fight it.
“You really don’t know how to stop talking, do you?” he murmured.
“Not when I’ve got something worth saying,” Scar said, eyes warm.
They fell quiet again, sitting close enough that their shoulders brushed with every small movement. The sun dipped lower, painting the park in shades of amber and rose.
After a while, Grian spoke, his tone thoughtful. “You know, Mrs. Watcher would have a field day if she saw us like this.”
Scar laughed. “She’d probably call it progress.”
“Or scandal,” Grian countered, chuckling softly.
“Progress sounds nicer,” Scar said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Let’s go with that.”
They stayed there until the light began to fade and the hospital lights blinked on across the street. Neither of them seemed in any hurry to leave, chatting about everything and nothing all at once.
There was no fear tugging behind Grian’s heart when he looked at him, only peace.
Scar reached out, threading his fingers through Grian’s. “You know,” he murmured, eyes still on the sunset, “I think I could get used to this. Slowing down, taking it easy.”
Grian squeezed his hand gently. “Good,” he said. “Because I think I’d like you to stick around for a while.”
Scar smiled soft, genuine, and full of quiet certainty. “Deal.”
The evening air settled warm around them. And as the last of the sunlight slipped beyond the horizon, Grian leaned his head lightly against Scar’s shoulder, content, at last, to simply be.