Archive of Our Own

Samira was being honest when she told McKay that everything could wait until she finished her residency, that she didn’t want to socialise after work. She knew the way McKay looked at her, but Samira has always understood the value of having her own career, and she doesn’t intend to put that aside to, what? Date some guy who’s probably going to be threatened by her? Who’s going to complain that she doesn’t have time for him, that she works odd hours? Who expects her to see him on her day off instead of letting her sleep twelve hours before her next shift, who she’s going to have to call and apologise to when she needs to stay late?

None of that sounds appealing to Samira, and it definitely sounds like something that can wait. So it’s been easy enough, for the past few months, to put it out of her mind and to take on case after case. Robby seems to have taken notice of her after the PittFest MCI, too - he’s letting her do cooler stuff, letting her take the lead on things where she’d usually be overlooked, and work just gets better and better. Samira feels better after, too, like she’s really done something.

So the point is that Samira does love her life, and everything’s going great, until one day Robby claps his hand on her shoulder and says, “I mean it, Mohan. You’ve been a rockstar today,” and something flips in Samira’s stomach and then settles much lower, and before she can realise what a cliche she is, she thinks oh.

And then she thinks, oh shit.

The problem with the aforementioned ’not socialising outside of work’ thing means that Samira isn’t sure who to talk to about the other problem. The Robby of it all. So she decides it’s not a problem, until it is - until she’s cutting an incision in a patient, Robby opposite her, and he says something - something totally innocuous, like ’keep it steady’, and something about his voice makes Samira’s hands shake.

It’s not only embarrassing, it’s bad.The one thing a doctor cannot have is shaky hands. She manages to catch herself, to steel her focus, and it’s only a second but it’s a second too long. Any hopes that no one noticed are dashed when she leaves the room, throwing her gloves in the bin with slightly more force than needed, and behind her, Robby - “Dr Mohan, a word?”

Oh shit, Samira thinks again, but she follows him into the family room where he closes the door - Samira resists the urge to close her eyes, curses her body for the butterflies gathering in her stomach and its inability to read the fucking room - and Robby turns to look at her, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie.

“Mohan,” he says again, his eyes wrinkled at the corners. “Is everything okay?”

“Yep!” Samira says brightly. “Everything’s fine, thanks!”

“Okay,” Robby says, in that tone which means I absolutely do not believe you, which, fair. “We both know that your hands were shaking in there.”

“For like, a second,” Samira says quickly. “And I stopped them.”

“Right,” Robby says. Samira can’t think of anywhere she’d hate to be more right now than here - alone, in a room, with Robby. “You did. But it can’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” Samira says and then, because Robby looks unconvinced, “I promise. It won’t, okay?”

“Okay,” Robby says, and takes his hands out of his hoodie, reaching for the door. He stops for a minute and says, “You’ve been exceptional lately. I really don’t want to see that change.”

It’s the best and worst thing that he could’ve said, and Samira waves him off when he holds the door open for her.

“I just need a minute,” she says and Robby bows his head and says, “Okay. See you back out there.”

Samira waits until she’s sure he’s gone before she leans against the wall and tips her head back against it, a little harder than she should, to see if it can knock some sense into her. This is bad. This is so bad.

She needs to talk to someone about how to fix this. Not naming names - God, you couldn’t waterboard this crush out of her - but like… a more generalised sort of talk. She can’t ask her mother, because her mother would get every single piece of information out of her and it would be hellish - but maybe someone else.

Santos, definitely not. McKay, probably not. She’d figure Samira out too easily. Who does that leave? Mel?

Mel is deceptively emotionally healthy, Samira knows. Mel made more friends in the ER on her first day than Samira thinks she’s made in the entire time she’s been here. Surely it can’t hurt.

She waits until their shift is over and they’re at the lockers before Samira says quietly, “Can I ask you something?”

“Me?” Mel says, looking surprised, then, “uh, sure, I guess. I mean, of course! If I can help.”

“Have you ever had to get over a crush on someone?” Samira says. She’s taking off her scrubs, which is good, because it means she doesn’t have to look Mel in the eye when she says it. “Like, someone who would be a bad idea?”

She makes the mistake of looking up and sees Mel turning pink, looking more flustered than Samira’s ever seen her, and Samira’s seen Mel do a lateral canthotomy.

“Um, no, why?” Mel says. “Have you heard something?”

Samira blinks at her, aware that there’s something she’s missing here but not feeling sharp enough at the end of her shift to work out what.

“I’m just asking,” Samira says, finally. “I’m not - I don’t - ”

“Oh my God, you’re both useless,” Santos says, arriving with all the force of a hurricane, her shirt already halfway over her head, bra on show. “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. It’s just math.”

“That’s not math,” Mel says. “That’s psychology, if anything, and barely.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” Santos says. “Fake it ’til you make it, right? If you’re busy thinking about someone else, you’re not thinking about who you’re not thinking about.”

“That’s technically true,” Samira says, although she’s not entirely convinced.

Santos pulls a clean shirt on and sticks her head out to smirk at Samira.

“Why, are you looking?”

“Not here,” Samira says. “The last thing I’d want to do is date someone I work with.” Deny, deny, deny.

“I can set you up with one of my friends, if you want,” Santos says, and Samira only just manages to repress her knee-jerk reaction of God, no. Santos is abrasive, but her heart’s in the right place and Samira knows that Santos would be offended if Samira rejected her attempt at helping, even if she wouldn’t say it.

“I’m fine!” Samira says instead, zipping up her jeans and grabbing her bag, thankful to have a reason to leave the conversation. “I’m on the apps!”

Santos starts saying something else but Samira’s already halfway out the door, power-walking across the ER as fast as she can to get home. Okay, so date someone else - that makes sense. Then instead of thinking about Robby’s hands - competent, capable, spread across her hips and holding her down - she’ll think about someone else’s hands.

Someone who won’t make her own shake.

Nothing could go wrong with this plan.

-

Meeting someone on the apps is actually easier than Samira thought it would be, especially considering the little effort she’s bothered to put in. She uploads a few selfies, a photo of herself in her scrubs, an old photo from medical school of herself sitting in a park, laughing, green grass and blue sky. Then it’s just name, age, occupation and some bullshit questions about what she’s looking for, and the notifications start to pop up almost straight away.

Samira scrolls through them, unenthused - the problem with looking to get over someone is that she’s not really looking for anyone specific, although any older men are immediately ruled out. There are a few who seem okay, good-looking enough with funny profiles, so Samira swipes ’yes’ on a few and it doesn’t take long before someone’s asking her out for drinks tomorrow night.

Samira’s working tomorrow but it’s a 7-7 so drinks should be doable if she goes straight from the hospital. It sounds like her idea of a bad time, but she’s got to commit to this, and the sooner she goes on a few dates then the sooner she’ll be over whatever weird Robby hero-worship she’s got going on and she can go back to having no life outside the hospital. Which sounds depressing, but Samira likes it that way.

They arrange to meet at the bar opposite the Pitt at 7.30, which gives Samira enough time if she runs a little late but not much, and she’ll have to go in whatever she wears to work which isn’t ideal but she really can’t face the idea of changing and getting dressed up after a twelve hour shift. If this guy - Warren - wants to see her, this is how he has to see her.

Then she gets into bed and passes out at some point during season eleven of Married At First Sight Australia.

In the morning, Samira’s forgotten all about the date until she’s halfway through her shift and realises she’s going to be showing up in sweatpants and a hoodie.

“Shit,” she says, under her breath, and Collins glances at her, raising an eyebrow.

“Everything okay, Dr Mohan?”

“Fine,” Samira says, because she doesn’t want to tell anyone about this whole experiment and even if she did, Collins would not be the choice to pour her heart out to. “Just remembered something, sorry. I’m going to grab Whitaker to take a look at the irritable four month old in North Two.”

Well, she decides, once she’s found Whitaker and he’s giving her his diagnosis, there’s nothing that can be done now. Besides, there isn’t any place for distractions in the ER - that was the entire point of this to begin with - so Samira does her best to put it out of her mind, and focus on the cases.

It’s only at the end of her shift - which miraculously ends on time - that the dread starts to creep in. She manages to change relatively quickly, and while her clothes are maybe a little sloppy, they’re clean and soft, so things could definitely be worse. There weren’t any more fluids than usual today, and she’s pretty sure the blood stayed confined to her scrubs, so all in all Samira is willing to chalk this up to a success.

It only takes her ten minutes to walk across to the bar so she’s about ten minutes early by the time she gets there, but that’s alright. She orders a beer and finds a corner to sit in and watches everyone coming in while she takes sips of her drink, hoping that she gets buzzed as opposed to just tired.

Warren arrives precisely on time, and looks about the same as he did in his photos - no better, no worse. He joins her at the table, leaving his jacket over the back of his chair before he goes to the bar to get his own drink.

“I ordered some snacks as well, I hope that’s okay,” he says, when he sits back down. “Just chips and dip, but I thought you might be hungry after your shift.”

Samira’s stomach growls as though on cue and she makes a face.

“Just a bit.”

He’s fine, is the thing. He’s polite and funny and not difficult to look at and Samira’s having a nice time, even if she switches to water after the beer, because chips and dip is not enough food for her really to be drinking on. Mostly, she’s tired, and thinking wistfully about her bed and Married At First Sight but that’s not Warren’s fault, and he remembers to ask her questions, as well, and seems genuinely interested in the answers.

He’s the oldest of three, all boys, and his parents are still together - mom’s a realtor, dad works at a garage. He went to college in Pittsburgh and liked it enough to stay here, working as an accountant, and seems genuinely impressed by the fact that Samira’s a doctor.

There’s nothing to dislike about him.

At one point, he excuses himself and gets up to use the bathroom and Samira leans back in her seat, drinking more of her water and wishing again that she was at home. How much longer does she have to stay to be polite? It’s only just gone eight, even though it feels later, and Samira takes another sip of her water. Maybe she should go for something with caffeine instead, but then she’ll never get to sleep tonight.

She looks around instead. The bar’s pretty busy for a Tuesday night - it’s filled up since they were here. A group of guys in one corner, huddled around the pool table. Two girls by the bar, another couple by the door who look like they’re on a date. The woman is older but stunning, her hair swept up, looking too fancy for a place like this, and the guy -

Well, the guy’s got his back to her, so Samira can’t be sure. But he looks a lot like Dr Abbot.

“No way,” Samira murmurs. It shouldn’t be surprising - the bar is right across from the hospital, after all. She didn’t know he dated, though; he wears a wedding ring, unless he’s cheating? But it would be insane to do it right across from the hospital, unless that’s his wife, of course. Still, they don’t look like two people that know each other well - not that Samira’s an expert on body language.

As though he can feel her staring, Dr Abbot turns around in his seat - it’s probably more likely that his date saw her, Samira realises - and catches her eye. He doesn’t look surprised - he doesn’t make any sort of expression - just twists back around in his seat and leans forward, saying something across the table to his date.

Samira should really stop staring at them. Warren comes back anyway, smiling and asking if she wants another drink but something about the last few minutes has taken it out of her, and Samira says, “Sorry, I think I’m wiped. Do you mind if we call it?”

Something flickers across Warren’s face but he stays smiling and says, “Not at all. Honestly, it was really cool of you to meet me right after your shift.”

“Next time, aim for a day off,” Samira says without thinking, pushing her chair back and standing up, and Warren blinks at her and says, “Okay.”

He holds out his hand to help her around the table and doesn’t let go once she’s out, and they’re walking to the exit. In retrospect, maybe Samira shouldn’t have sat right at the back, but in her defense, she wasn’t anticipating that one of her attendings would be at the same bar. She tries not to look at Abbot as they walk past but she can’t help glancing over her shoulder.

He’s looking at her. Samira quickly looks away again, wishing that she hadn’t shown up to a date in sweatpants and a hoodie. Warren and Abbot alike must think - well. She doesn’t know what they think.

Outside, Warren squeezes her hand before letting go.

“Do you want a ride home?”

“Uh, no,” Samira says. “I’ll just get an Uber. But thanks.” He waits with her until the car shows up, because of course he does, and Samira’s polite enough to smile at him before she gets in and say, “I had a really nice time, thank you.”

She’s only just home and through her door, kicking off her shoes and collapsing on her couch, when her phone dings with the app notification sound.

Warren would like a second date.

-

The next time Samira sees Dr Abbot at work, he doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t even look at her like they’ve got a secret - and why would he? There’s nothing weird or untoward about going on a date with someone. It’s not a secret. It wasn’t anyone from the hospital. Samira wasn’t even drinking when he saw her, again, not that it would make a difference if she was!

So she follows his lead, telling herself she’s relieved, and when they’re in trauma one and he lets her take the lead on a resuscitative thoracotomy she’s glad that she didn’t make it weird. Samira is fully focused - the patient had a penetrating injury from a stab wound and cardiac arrest and previous signs of life, and she remembers from med school that the survival rate is only something like four per cent.

It’s another thing that she’s no longer thinking about while she’s cutting the skin with a scalpel and then spreading the ribs, and her hands aren’t shaking at all when she moves the lungs and cuts open the pericardium and it’s one of those things that feels like it simultaneously lasted both five hours and five seconds when she’s finished sewing the cut in the heart closed, and the patient survived - at least for now.

Abbot meets her eyes across the room and says, “Rather you than me,” with the slight smirk she’s got so used to.

“Throwing me under the bus again, Dr Abbot?” Samira says, but she’s starting to feel the adrenaline high of a successful risky procedure going off without a hitch and she can’t stop smiling, enough that she knows she probably looks insane.

“Trying to find something you’ll fail at,” he says, “guess I’ll have to keep looking,” and Samira feels like she’s walking on air for the rest of her shift, and it’s this good mood that leads to her taking her phone out of her bag and texting Warren back about a second date, because it worked, right? Even though Robby wasn’t in the room, she wasn’t thinking about him, so it must have worked.

Warren wants to go somewhere nicer for their second date, which is fair, and he suggests a restaurant that Samira has never heard of but a quick Google search tells her that it’s pretty nice, nice enough that she definitely shouldn’t show up in sweatpants again. He makes sure that he’s booked it for her day off, seven thirty again which Samira considers late for dinner but means that she’ll have enough time to sleep most of the day and make sure that she’s dressed up enough.

Plus, fancy restaurant means that there’s less chance of seeing someone she knows this time. It’s not right by the hospital - it’s in a part of town that Samira’s never been to - so she can write the last date off as just a weird coincidence and make sure that this time she’s fully focused on Warren. Maybe she’ll even have a cocktail.

Samira’s next day off is a Friday, which isn’t too bad, and she’s working the night shift on Saturday so she won’t be worrying about getting up early. It rolls around fast enough and this time Samira makes sure to make a bit more effort - nothing too over the top, but she digs out her graduation dress which thankfully still fits, puts her nicest gold earrings in and even thinks about doing something fancy with her hair, although she decides against that and just leaves her curls down instead.

She’s still in a good mood when she gets to the restaurant and the hostess shows her to their table, Warren already waiting.

He stands up when he sees her and moves around to pull her chair out and Samira sits down and thinks that maybe dating isn’t that bad, actually.

“You look beautiful,” he says, when he’s sat down in his own chair, and maybe it’s a bit much for a second date but Samira put more than minimal effort in for this so she deserves to have it recognised.

“Thank you,” she says, and then, “You look nice,” partly because he does, but partly because she’s too polite not to return a compliment.

“A bit fancier than sweatpants,” Warren says, and winks. Samira sits back, a little stung, but then - he’s joking. And not only that, she had shown up to the first date in sweatpants and he’d been nice enough not to comment on it then. Surely they can joke about it?

So she smiles and picks up the menu, pretending to be really interested in what to order. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t have prices on the menu which Samira doesn’t totally love - honestly, she’d rather get a dirty burger from a food truck and sit outside, some of her best memories have been sitting in the park with the Pitt crew after a shift - but she’s got a decent salary, plus she barely spends it except on rent, food and Ubers, so however much it is, she can afford it.

It’s likely that Warren will pay and Samira’s pretty sure she’ll let him, but the date could go badly and she’s always prepared to pay in case this is a man that she doesn’t want feeling like he’s owed anything.

The sommelier comes over and Warren picks a wine, looking at her with a bit of a self-deprecating smile after, like he knows this is all pretentious and he’s just playing along. Samira’s ready to ask him how his day was before something catches her eye, and she looks over at the couple being shown to a table in front of her.

No fucking way.

It’s Abbot and the woman from the bar.

Warren seems to be able to tell she’s distracted because he looks over, following her gaze, and back at her.

“Do you know them?”

“Uh, yeah,” Samira says, and shakes her head a little, trying to focus. This is so weird. “That’s my attending.”

“Your…?” Warren says, leaving space for Samira to fill in, and she blinks, picking up her wine glass to take a sip.

“Senior physician,” she says. “Um, person in charge of the ED. The Emergency Department, sorry. He’s a colleague.”

“Oh,” Warren says, like he doesn’t really get why that’s a big deal. He’s right, it isn’t. It’s just weird that he was at the bar and now he’s here, but he hasn’t even seen her, despite the fact that he’s been seated almost directly in her line of sight.

Samira’s looking at Warren but she can see Abbot out of the corner of her eye - he also pulls out the chair for his partner, and he’s wearing a suit, no tie, shirt open at the collar. It’s like - it’s like -

“Samira?” Warren says again and Samira looks away from Abbot, aware that she’s being rude.

“Sorry,” she says, “sorry, I was just - what were you saying? About work?”

“Right,” Warren says slowly, but he picks his story back up and Samira manages to pay attention, and if she can still see Abbot when she’s looking at Warren, well, what’s she supposed to do about that? She didn’t seat him there. It’s not her fault that she recognises the expression on his face while he’s listening to his date - the same focused expression he gets during surgery, when he’s concentrating on something, like it’s the most important thing in the world.

Warren’s finished his story and Samira casts about for something to say, something related to accountancy, which she knows next to nothing about.

She lands on, “Does that happen a lot?” and it seems to be the right thing to say because Warren’s off again, explaining something about tax season, and Samira can see Abbot saying something to his date, low and close, before he leans back and laughs in a way that Samira hasn’t seen him do before. Not, of course, that there’s much opportunity for laughter in the ED.

Samira tries to put Abbot out of her head, but it doesn’t help that Warren’s story is particularly boring. Yesterday in the ED, Abbot had taken his break at the same time Samira did, and he’d told her about a case he thought she’d be interested in. He always cites the source when he does that, like he knows she’s going to want to look it up later, get any of the details that he might’ve missed.

He’s been in the habit of doing that since Pittfest and the 5 French pigtail catheter; finding her on his break, telling her about interesting cases. Sometimes she doesn’t believe him, thinks he’s fucking with her, and sometimes he is and he smiles when she guesses right. Other times, he tells her about things he did as a combat medic and, as unbelievable as they sound, Samira never accuses him of lying about those.

She manages to get through the rest of the date by nodding when she’s supposed to and Warren, to his credit, does try and involve her in the conversation. It’s not boring, or it shouldn’t be - Samira just has more interesting things to think about, but she’s doing her best to try and stay in the moment, even sharing a tiramisu with him for dessert.

Warren goes up to pay and Samira grabs her tiny bag, standing to leave. Abbot catches her eye and nods his head a little, gesturing over. Samira can’t see his date, so she heads over to him, feeling suddenly awkward and self-conscious.

“I promise I’m not stalking you,” she says straight away, without even knowing she was going to.

Abbot raises his eyebrows and says, “I didn’t think you were, especially considering that we arrived after you both times.”

So he’d noticed, Samira thinks, and then tries to not think it.

“Well,” she says instead, “if it helps, I don’t think you’re stalking me.”

“I’m not,” Abbot says, dry enough that Samira can’t quite tell if he’s in on the joke or not. She’s trying not to really look at him, either - he’s got a little bit of stubble, like he hasn’t shaved today, and something about the way his shirt is open at the collar is making her feel a little bit insane. It’s just weird, that’s all.

It doesn’t help that he’s looking at her too - in a normal way, she thinks, the way you’d look at someone you’re talking to, but Samira’s also aware that she’s wearing a dress, that her hair is down, that she spent a lot of time today ensuring that she’s in her hot girl era and now her attending is here, and -

She’s not sure where that thought finishes.

“It was nice to see you,” Samira says, for lack of anything else and then, because sue her, she’s nosy, “is that your wife?”

Abbot’s expression doesn’t change. “Do you think she is?”

“Well, you have a wedding ring,” Samira says. Even though she doesn’t get called Slo-Mo anymore, Samira still listens, and she observes. It’s not rocket science to notice that Abbot wears a wedding ring, that he leaves on time when he can, that he’s on more of an even keel than almost anyone else in the department.

“Widowed,” Abbot says. “Just over ten years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Samira says. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Abbot smiles a little, just a quirk at the side of his mouth, and leans back in his chair.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t mind.” He nods behind her and Samira turns to see Warren, holding her coat and looking for her. “I think your boyfriend wants to go.”

Samira stares at him, steadily, and says, “Do you think he is?”

Abbot doesn’t say anything, though, and Warren is waiting so without saying goodbye, Samira turns and goes back to Warren. He breaks out in a grin when he sees her, helping her into her coat, and Samira kisses him outside of the restaurant before getting in her Uber and tries not to think about anything else at all.

But when she’s home, taking off her make-up, Samira can’t stop thinking about Abbot. It’s just weird, always seeing someone in one context and then seeing them another - knowing Abbot as the caustic physician always in scrubs, go bag at hand, and then seeing him, smiling, in a suit, at a restaurant.

Anyone would think about it. Samira says to Mel, next time, “Do you think it’s weird when you run into someone from work outside of work?”

“Um,” Mel says, jumpy again. “Like, in the supermarket?”

“Just in a different context,” Samira says, aware that she’s not really giving much to go on. “It’s weird, right? You think about them a lot?”

Mel clears her throat and then says, “I feel like you’re asking me something very specific and I don’t think I’ve experienced this.” Then she softens and says, “But, uh, yeah! I think that would be weird. You know. If it happened.”

Which - fair, and Samira doesn’t want to give any specifics. Instead, she puts Abbot out of her head and Robby out of her head because despite her best attempts, he’s still in there somewhere, and thinks not for the first time that at least her job doesn’t often give her time to think about anything else.

The next time she sees Abbot at work, he slows to walk next to her and she glances at him sideways, not sure if she should be the one to acknowledge it or not.

“So,” Abbot says, speeding up a little and turning around so he’s walking backwards in front of her, hands gripping the stethoscope round his neck. “Where’s our next date?”

Samira frowns at him, looking around to check if anyone’s listening in. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

Abbot rolls his eyes and slows down, forcing Samira to slow too, so she doesn’t walk right into him.

“C’mon - we’ve done bar, restaurant, what’s next?”

Something takes over Samira and she says, “Okay, we were thinking mini-golf - you know that place, the Puttshack? It’s like high-tech or something.”

Abbot makes a face as they reach the nurses’ station and he leans against the counter, still facing her.

“Didn’t know you were dating a finance bro.”

Samira opens her mouth and closes it again, because he’s not exactly wrong, and settles for saying, lamely, “Accountant.”

“Mini-golf is fun but you should go to Sunset,” Abbot says. “It’s the best. Plus it’s outside, and the weather’s nice at the minute.”

Samira looks at him - really looks at him for a minute, the way he looks at her - slow, assessing, and then nods. She thinks she can see it, in his face, the thing she’s looking for.

“Okay,” she says. “I think we’re sticking to my days off now anyway, so it won’t be for a few days or so.” She tells herself that she’s just making conversation by saying that, like she isn’t telling him when and where she’s going to be. Because it’s just been a coincidence so far, and that’s fine. A little weird, but normal.

But this - it’s not quite a double date, but it’s close. Although it’s starting to feel like something else entirely, and Samira doesn’t want to put a name to it. Whatever it is, it’s not making her hands shake - in fact lately, she’s never felt steadier.

“Dr Mohan,” McKay says, joining them, and she looks between Samira and Abbot like she’s trying to work out a particularly difficult equation. “I could use you in North Four.”

“Sure,” Samira says, and then she’s off, flying, from one case to another.

-

Warren picks her up outside her apartment, and it’s a short drive from there to Sunset. He wasn’t too excited when she suggested it - apparently, he’d really wanted to check out Puttshack. Samira hadn’t really understood how mini-golf could be tech-infused and maybe now she never will, but he’d been open to trying somewhere else, especially as it was Samira’s turn to choose.

“How’d you hear about this place anyway?” he asks and Samira says, “Someone at work mentioned it. They said it was good.” Which isn’t untrue.

Abbot isn’t anywhere when they get there and Samira’s not so much disappointed as she feels stupid, like maybe she read that whole conversation wrong. Maybe he was really just joking, and Samira was kind of dumb for mentioning her day off. She doesn’t feel stupid very often - imposter syndrome, thankfully, isn’t something she deals with - but something about this whole situation is making her feel like a child, and it’s not helped on the first hole when Samira learns that she really sucks at mini-golf.

It also doesn’t help that Warren is really good at it (an uncharitable part of Samira wonders if this is why he suggested it) but the weather’s nice, like Abbot said it would be, so Samira tries to mind too much that he’s stood waiting while she hits the ball just past the hole for the tenth time.

Eventually, Samira says, because it seems to be polite, “Do you want to play through?”

“Okay,” Warren says, and leans over to kiss her cheek which is new, and also not something that Samira loves at this moment in time. She hadn’t actually expected him to say yes. Isn’t the point of a date to actually spend time together?

Still, it’s a little nicer sucking at mini-golf without Warren stood there watching, so she’s not as bothered as she suspects she should be when he’s gone on to the next hole and Samira’s still trying to tap her ball through the mouth of a giant skull.

Eventually, she gives up, circles around to pick it up and goes to the next hole - something with dinosaurs. The first time she tries to hit the ball, she’s so annoyed that she just completely misses it and of course, this is the moment that someone comes up behind her and says, “Whoa, you totally missed that.”

“I know,” Samira says. It’s Abbot - of course it is. “In case you hadn’t noticed, mini-golf isn’t exactly my strong point.”

“No,” Abbot says, grinning at her from behind his sunglasses. “Doesn’t look like it is.” He’s wearing a black t-shirt, black jeans, and he looks closer to the way he usually does at work than he did in the restaurant. He still looks very much off duty, though - casual and relaxed, and Samira pretends that it isn’t a relief to see him.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Samira asks instead and Abbot says, “Not my girlfriend. She’s getting an ice cream. This isn’t really her scene.”

“Wish it wasn’t mine,” Samira says and Abbot says, “Mind if I go ahead?” He doesn’t wait, gently nudging her out of the way and Samira stands aside and watches him expertly tap the ball, sees it roll right under the T-Rex and knows, without looking, that he’s just got a hole in one.

“Oh, of course you’re great at this too,” Samira says exasperatedly, trying to flick her hair out of her eyes. She’s sweating a little bit, both from the sun and from mini-golf frustration. “Is there anything you’re bad at?”

It’s not meant to be implying anything, but there’s a moment where she’s almost sure they’re both thinking the same thing before Abbot says, “I was starting to think the same thing about you, so this is a pleasant surprise.”

“I don’t like being bad at things,” Samira admits, through gritted teeth and Abbot laughs, the way he had at the restaurant, and this time Samira experiences a sudden warmth at being the one who got him to do it.

“You’re a doctor,” he says. “Highly competitive and trained to be the best. Obviously you hate it.”

“I can do a burr hole with an EZ-IO drill but I can’t do this,” Samira says and Abbot says, “I know which one of those I think is cooler.”

Samira rolls her eyes at him but she’s grinning as she lines up to hit the ball, right up until it once again rolls right past the hole.

“Fuck!” Samira says, then instinctively says, “Sorry,” which is possibly more embarrassing.

Abbot looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or not. “You don’t need to apologise, Mohan. I’m not the attending of the mini-golf course and even if I was, I don’t give a shit if you curse.”

“You can call me Samira,” Samira says, because it does seem ridiculous to be called by her surname while she’s stood in front of a giant T-Rex. “Dr Collins doesn’t like it when we curse in front of patients.”

“Jack,” Abbot says, and it takes her a minute to realise that he’s giving her his name. It feels strangely intimate, and Samira looks down at her golf club, her knuckles white around the grip. Jack. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Not my boyfriend,” Samira says. “He played through. I’m taking too long for him.”

Abbot rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he says, “Ironically for you, you’re going too fast. You need to slow down and think about the angles. You’re just hitting it and hoping it goes to the right place.”

“I am not,” Samira says, although he’s right. She loves taking her time in the ER but she just doesn’t care enough about mini-golf to have any patience with it - especially when she’s bad at it, and just wants it to be over as soon as possible.

She tries again, slower, but this time the ball rolls to a stop right in front of the hole and Samira resists the urge to just throw her golf club down and rage quit the entire thing.

“I said don’t rush, not use less force,” Abbot says, amused. “You’re also gripping the club like you want to snap it in half.”

“I do,” Samira mutters.

“Look,” Abbot says, and then, “Can I?”

It takes a minute for Samira to realise what he’s asking and she nods before she realises what it’ll mean - that Abbot is stood behind her, reaching around to hold the golf club, his hands wrapped over hers.

“Is this okay?” he says into her ear and Samira manages not to shiver. He’s warm and solid against her, standing close but not close enough to be pressed into her, and he’s only slightly taller than her. If he moved closer his face would be pressed into her hair and Samira ducks her head forward slightly, worried that if she thinks about it too much she’ll make it happen.

Samira tells herself it’s like being a med student again with someone else holding the scalpel and making the cut, but if she’s being honest med school never felt anything like this.

“It’s fine,” she says. “This is a teaching hospital, Dr Abbot,” and she feels his hands tighten reflexively over hers.

Samira closes her eyes and opens them again. The sun is bright, shining directly on her face, and Warren is somewhere out of sight and Samira’s not sure she’s ever felt more relaxed in her life. Abbot moves the golf club for both of them, swinging and hitting, and of course the ball shoots through the T-Rex no problem, dropping neatly into the hole.

“There you go,” Abbot says, but he doesn’t let go of her. Samira looks at his hands over hers - his hands have held human hearts, cut people open, seen combat and now here they are, gentle and warm, showing her how to play golf. There is something imminently reassuring in that.

After a minute, Abbot lets go and Samira walks over to pick up the golf ball, glancing over her shoulder at him. He’s still stood there, looking at nothing, head down, so Samira walks back over.

“Everything okay?”

Abbot blinks at her, like for a moment he wasn’t quite sure where he was and then he says, “Yeah. I’d best be getting back, though.” He jerks one thumb in the direction of the hut and Samira nods, confused.

“Sure.” Then she says, “Bye, Jack,” and he turns around almost straight away, taking a step back towards her. Samira watches, her heart beating fast, even if she doesn’t know why. He looks at her, then he looks up at the sky and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

“I thought you were leaving,” Samira says, smiling and he says, “You’re a menace, Dr Mohan.”

Samira doesn’t say anything this time, just watches him leave - the way he lopes across the golf course, the confidence in the way he moves. She’s still looking in his direction even after he’s gone, even as Warren comes over to her, damp and grinning.

“You ready to leave?”

“Oh, yeah,” Samira says. She only made it to hole eight of twenty seven, but that’s more than enough. “Why are you wet?”

“The buffalo,” Warren says darkly, slinging an arm around her shoulder as they walk. “It sprays water if you get too close.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Samira says. It’s a bright sunny day and as they leave, she can see Abbot leaning against the wall of the hut, tapping his golf club against the wall and Samira knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that she has to break up with Warren.

To be clear, it’s not that she thinks anything is going to happen with Abbot - he’s her attending, and she’s not sure he’s interested. Just because he takes his breaks when she does - it’s not unusual for someone more senior at the hospital to take an interest in a a doctor more junior to them, and even though they don’t talk about work or medicine all the time, it’s still the majority of the conversation.

But she’s not interested in Warren, not like that, and three dates feels like the time to call it. Samira doesn’t say anything in the car, but she waits until he drops her off. They’re standing outside her apartment block and he’s clearly expecting to be invited in.

“I don’t think this is going to work out between us,” Samira says, because there’s nothing like ripping off the band-aid, and she laces her hands together behind her back and looks up at him. “I just don’t think we’re compatible.”

“Uh, okay,” Warren says, clearly taken aback. “Is this because I played through?”

“No,” Samira says, “it’s not,” and it’s only when she starts thinking thin skin or thick? that she realises she’s giving feedback in the same way that she would to a junior at the hospital.

“I thought we were having a nice time,” Warren says. Thin skin. “It doesn’t have to be anything serious.”

Samira laughs, short and surprised. “Are you asking to be friends with benefits?”

Warren flushes dark red, takes a step back with his hands raised. “That’s not what I meant, sorry. I just meant that it’s only been three dates, we’re still getting to know each other.”

“Look,” Samira says, falling into the trap of socialised politeness and hating herself for it a little bit, “you seem really nice, but -”

“So one more date?” Warren says. “It can be super chill, I’ll just meet you after work. We can have a picnic or something, there’s a park near the bar we met at.”

Samira should say no. She hates doing things after work and she knows that she doesn’t want to date this guy long-term. But he does seem nice and maybe another date will give her the time she needs to get it through his head that she’s not interested.

“Fine,” she says, at last. “Thursday? Seven fifteen?”

Warren breaks out into a grin. “Awesome! I’ll see you then.” He turns, starts jogging off, and Samira lets herself into her apartment with the dull sinking feeling of someone who’s made a mistake.

-

Seven fifteen rolls around sooner than Samira would like. She’s in sweatpants and a hoodie again, back to minimal effort, and doesn’t even bother to take her hair out of the claw clip that’s been hanging on for dear life since around three PM. She just wants to get this over with and more than that, she’s annoyed at herself for letting herself be talked into giving Warren another chance when she knows he doesn’t need one.

Still, she finds her usual bench and sits down to wait, curling the cuffs of her hoodie over her hands. It looks like rain, so she pulls her hood up over her head and thinks about texting Warren to see if he wants to reschedule - but that would mean dragging this out even further and besides, it’ll be a good excuse to leave quickly once he gets here.

Ten minutes go by with no sign of him. It’s weird, because he’s usually punctual, and Samira’s taking out her phone to text him when she feels the first fat drop of rain land on her. Where are you?

Her phone chimes almost straight away, as if he’s been waiting for her. ten mins away, sorry!

Samira heaves a big sigh and stows her phone away in her pocket. She wouldn’t usually wait but she’s tired, and the thought of getting up and walking again just seems like more effort than she has right now.

“What are you doing here?” someone says, and it’s Abbot, because of course it is - of course he’s seeing her like this, sitting in the rain, waiting around for someone who - let’s face it - probably isn’t going to show up.

“You know,” she says, “I’m starting to think I was right the first time, and you are stalking me.”

“Call it a fascination,” Abbot says and sits down next to her on the bench, reaching down to rub at where she knows the join of his prosthetic is, under his scrubs.

“Because I’m so fascinating,” Samira says, but Abbott just keeps looking at her, and she waves her phone at him. “If only Warren thought so.”

“Warren,” Abbot deadpans and Samira shrugs.

“I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore and he asked for a second chance. Though now I’m thinking his plan was actually to see how long he could keep me sitting here on my own.”

It’s raining heavily now, has been for a little while, and the thin cloth of Samira’s hoodie is offering little to no protection. Abbot’s in an industrial looking rain-coat, green-grey and military looking, and he keeps watching her.

“How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” Samira says. “I was just about to go. What time is it?”

“Seven forty five,” Abbot says. “I finished late. You’ve been here since your shift finished?”

“More or less,” Samira says and stands up, stretching. She’s been hunched over on the bench for longer than she realised, and she’s feeling it in her back. “I wasn’t really waiting for him. It just felt like a lot of effort to move.”

Abbot stands with her, shrugging out of his coat and putting it over her shoulders without asking. It feels a little like tarpaulin but it’s warm and dry and it smells like him. Samira recognises it from the golf course, when he was behind her - hospital disinfectant and something smoky underneath.

“You’re going to get soaked,” she says and Abbot says, “I won’t melt. How did you get to work?”

“I walked,” Samira says. “I’m just going to get the bus back, it’s fine.” Abbot doesn’t say anything and Samira pulls his coat closer, slipping her arms through the sleeves. “I know you didn’t drive in,” she says. “So you can’t give me a ride.”

He looks at her, the corner of his mouth pulling upwards. Samira decides it’s her favourite of his smiles.

“I’m that easy to read? Must be losing my touch.”

“Or I’m just used to you,” Samira says, and lets herself knock her shoulder against his. “You really don’t have to worry. I’m not going to blow away in the rain, and the bus stop’s right over there.”

Abbot sticks his hands in the pockets of his scrubs, walks a few steps with her and then says, “If Warren ever comes in the ER, I’m letting Whitaker drill him an IO.”

Samira laughs, but it turns into a cough and it takes a few minutes to recover.

“You’re getting sick.”

“No, I’m not,” Samira says reflexively, even though she knows what it feels like when she gets ill and this feels pretty similar. “I had something stuck in my throat.”

“Yeah, a respiratory tract infection,” Abbot says.

“I’m just run down,” Samira says. “And cold. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“You’ll be fine tomorrow and worse the day after,” Abbot says matter-of-factly. “Call in sick tomorrow, Dr Mohan.”

“If you say so,” Samira says, with absolutely no intention of doing so. No one ever calls in sick to the ER if they can help it - it can literally be the difference between someone living and dying. Besides, it’s true what they say. Doctors really do make the worst patients.

They draw closer to the bus stop and Samira leans against the pole, breathing deeply and trying not to cough again. Abbot is still stood with her and Samira stands up, realising she’s still wearing his coat and trying to slip it off.

“Don’t,” Abbot says, one hand on her back to stop her. Samira freezes for a minute and he pulls his hand back, like he’s done something wrong. “Keep it on.”

“You don’t have to wait with me,” Samira says. “I’m not going to pass out at the bus stop.”

“Got nowhere else to be,” Abbot says.

“No date tonight?” Samira jokes and Abbot looks at her. His hair is soaking wet and plastered to his skin, and he’s looking at her like he can see straight through her.

“I guess not,” he says and Samira huddles further into his coat, trying to look like she isn’t breathing in the smell of him. “Tell me about yourself, Dr Mohan.”

“What do you mean?” Samira says, shivering a little, and he moves closer - close enough that she can feel the pressure of his arm through the coat.

“We’ve got some time to kill,” he says. “Why did you get into medicine?”

“My father,” Samira says, and when he doesn’t say anything else, she follows up. “He might have died anyway, I don’t know, but he died when I was thirteen because of racialised mistreatment in the ER. And I just wanted to find a way that I could stop that happening to anyone else.”

“So you picked medicine.”

“I looked at medicine, because of that, but then I fell in love with it,” Samira says. “I went to Penn State for undergrad, then Drexel. Then I was lucky enough to get my residency at the Pitt.”

“And you never considered leaving emergency?”

“I know what people think,” Samira says. “That I spend too long with my patients, even now. But you know why. And sometimes I see things that other people miss. And I love the ER. It’s really - it’s just -” She stops, unable to find the words, and then, “When everything goes right, it’s like flying.”

“That it is,” Abbot says, tipping back on his heels and staring at the sky. “That it is.”

The bus arrives, and Samira isn’t even surprised when Abbot gets on with it her, settling in the seat next to her with his leg out in the aisle.

“Are you walking me all the way home?” she says and Abbot says, “Can’t go home in this weather without my coat.”

It’s so easy to talk to him, is the thing - it always has been, even at work, in the lounge, talking about cases. And they talk about those, but they talk about other things, too - families (both Abbot’s parents are dead, Samira’s only one for two on the dead parent count), TV (Abbot mostly watches cooking shows, with a lot of knives, Samira can’t convince him of the value of Married At First Sight), school.

It feels like no time at all before Samira’s stop comes up and Abbot follows her off the bus, stopping in front of her building. It suddenly feels a lot like the other night, standing here with Warren, except this time she doesn’t want Abbot to leave.

Unfortunately, Samira’s very aware that she looks like a drowned rat, which is made even more unfair by the fact that Abbot still manages to look insanely… Samira doesn’t even know the word. ‘Handsome’ doesn’t seem the right fit - ‘hot’ is probably closer, but it still feels inadequate.

Abbot walks her all the way to her front door, which feels like overkill, especially since Samira’s on the fifth floor and the elevator’s been broken since she moved in. Once they’re outside her apartment, Samira shrugs out of his coat and hands it to him, finding her keys and unlocking her front door.

“Take a hot shower,” Abbot says, “and watch that brainless show you like and get some sleep.”

“Thank you for the treatment plan, Dr Abbot,” Samira says for the hell of it and she’s rewarded by Abbot stepping away from her, ducking his head to grip his hair with both hands.

“Jack,” Samira starts to say but she barely gets a sound out before she’s taken over by a coughing fit and Abbot reaches past her to push her door open, glaring at her until Samira goes inside.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and then he’s gone and Samira is left alone with just the scent of him on her clothes and in her hair.

Then she goes to take a shower because he was right, and she’s freezing, and she has a seven am shift in the morning.

-

In the morning, Samira is a little better, a little worse. She’s not coughing or sneezing and she doesn’t think she’s infectious but she does - not to put too fine a point on it - feel like shit. Every muscle in her body aches, and her bones hurt, and she wants to get under the covers and make a nest in her bed and never leave.

But Samira thinks about the fifty one patients waiting for twelve hours in chairs yesterday and she drags herself out of bed and to work. If she’s still wearing her pajama top when she pulls her scrubs on, that’s no one’s business but her own, after all.

She can tell she’s taking even longer than usual, and there’s more than one time that Samira finds herself in the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face and trying not to look in the mirror. She works with doctors - everyone can tell she’s under the weather but no one ever calls out, and Samira isn’t going to be the first.

She avoids Robby as much as she can, finding Collins when she needs a second opinion, but the hospital gods are smiling on her because it’s mostly easy cases today - or at least, nothing particularly intense.

It’s four pm when Robby finds her at the nurses’ station, hands pressed against her eyes to try and get a brief relief from the bright lights.

“Dr Mohan,” Robby says. “Go home.”

“I am fine,” Samira says. “I am not infectious and you need me here. I only have three hours left on my shift, and then I will be leaving.”

Robby stares at her then sighs, drags his hand over his face and says, “Sometimes I think I liked it better when you were trying to stay on my good side.”

“No, you didn’t,” Samira says.

“No, I didn’t,” Robby says. “But you are a pain in my ass today. If I hear from any of the patients that you’ve so much as sniffled near them, I’m sending you home, no arguments. Okay?”

“Okay!” Samira says.

“Hey, have you seen Dr Abbot?” Robby says and Samira swallows and says, “No, why would I?”

“Why would you indeed,” Robby says dryly. He leaves, but fifteen minutes later he finds Samira when she’s leaving South Fifteen and pushes a cup of tea into her hands without saying anything, striding off again and leaving her feeling vaguely discombobulated.

McKay comes up behind her, nudges her shoulder and says, “You doing okay?”

Samira takes a long sip of her tea before saying, “Fine, and before you say anything, I remember last year when you were here with food poisoning.”

“I would never say anything,” McKay says, eyes wide. “Who would say anything? Not me.”

“Uh-huh,” Samira says, and walks off to check on her patient with appendicitis in North Two.

-

Abbot was right. It’s the next day that Samira really feels it, although it’s possible that it’s worse because she insisted on working a twelve hour shift instead of staying at home and resting. It’s okay, because it’s she’s got two days off in a row for once and she didn’t have any plans other than staying in and bingeing TV anyway.

Actually, she’d been hoping to food prep for next week but the thought of standing upright for that long makes Samira feel like she’s about to pass out. Instead, she crawls into the living room to pull the blankets off the couch and brings them back to her bed to create the blanket nest she’s been craving since she got caught in the rain.

Samira knows that she needs to eat, that she should be drinking water, that she should probably be doing other things but instead she burrows down into the blankets and closes her eyes. She wants to sleep, but try as she might, it’s not happening.

And then someone knocks on her door.

Two short raps. Samira doesn’t know anyone who’d be coming over but sometimes her neighbour’s Door Dash gets delivered to Samira’s by accident - the difference between 51A and 51B - so she manages to disentangle herself from the blankets and drag herself over to the door, not bothering to check the peephole.

She wishes she had when Abbot is standing there. He’s got his go bag over his shoulder and he looks like he’s come straight from the night shift.

“What are you doing here?” Samira says and Abbot pushes past her, into her apartment, freeing Samira to go back to bed. She’s too tired to feel embarrassed, and her pajamas are just a long sleeved shirt and shorts, so there’s not even really anything to be embarrassed about.

“I’m a doctor,” Abbot says. “You’re sick. Feels pretty obvious to me.”

“How did you know?” Samira says, which is a stupid question because he’d literally called her out on it the day before yesterday, but in her defence, her brain isn’t quite working as well as usual right now.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I am actually a really good doctor,” Abbot says. “But then, so are you, so you should know better than this.”

Samira rolls her eyes at him from inside her nest of blankets, then regrets it. It hurts too much. “Great at the diagnosis, not so much the treatment,” she says.

“Agree to disagree,” Abbot says, then disappears into the kitchen. Samira can hear him banging about and at some point he yells, “That’s a fucking stupid place to keep your bowls!” but she’s too tired to worry much about it and besides, it’s sort of nice, isn’t it. Feeling looked after like this.

Abbot comes back in with a bowl of soup that he puts on the bedside table, then he sets on the side of her bed.

“It was really fucking dumb of you to go into work yesterday,” he says and Samira says, “You need to work on your bedside manner, Dr Abbot.”

“You also have to stop calling me that outside of work,” he says, “because otherwise the next time you call me that in the ER I’m going to go insane.”

Samira flushes, and this time it isn’t the fever. “I went into work because I was needed there,” she says instead. “You would’ve done the same.”

“I’m not a role model,” Abbot says. “Don’t do what I do, Samira.”

It might be the first time that he’s called her by her name and now she gets it, why he almost came back at the golf course when she called him Jack. There’s something about the intimacy of it, especially when she’s used to being Mohan, Dr Mohan, to have him here, sitting on the side of her bed and stroking her hair and calling her Samira.

She opens her mouth to say something - she doesn’t know what - but it doesn’t matter because she’s taken over by a coughing fit and Abbot helps her sit up, rubs her back, gives her a glass of water.

“You need rest,” he says abruptly. “You’re going to feel worse before you feel better. Is there anyone you can call?”

There isn’t. Samira is an only child. Her father is dead, and her mother lives in another state. Warren is obviously not someone she’d call, and she hasn’t dated or socialised outside of work, apart from drinks in the park with work, in about three years.

But Samira doesn’t want to guilt him into anything so she says, “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll call someone.”

He looks at her for a beat too long and then he says, “You’re lying. Samira-” there it is again, and even in her sickness, Samira has to squeeze her thighs together “- you don’t need to lie to me.”

“You don’t have to stay,” she says, and Abbot says, “Do you want me to?”

And he’d said not to lie, so Samira says, “Yes.”

It’s barely five minutes later that she falls asleep.

-

In the morning, Samira feels a lot better - at least enough to drag herself out of bed and into the shower. It’s amazing how human she feels again just after washing off the dried sweat, and she wraps a towel around herself and goes into the kitchen to get a banana when she sees Abbot on her couch and stops short. She’d forgotten - but it comes back to her, in pieces, the way he’d checked on her through the night, taken her temperature, made her drink water, sponged the sweat from her forehead with a cool cloth. She’d offered to share her bed but he’d declined, very politely.

She thinks she should be embarrassed, but she’s not - she’s only thankful. Glad that he’s still here.

Abbot sits up, rubbing the back of his neck and stretching, high enough that his shirt lifts up and Samira can see a strip of his stomach. She swallows. His prosthetic is on the floor next to the couch, and his legs are under a blanket.

“You stayed,” Samira says.

“I did,” Abbot says. He reaches down for his prosthetic, pushing back the blanket to attach it. “And you have one of the most uncomfortable couches I’ve ever slept on.”

“I offered to share,” Samira says. She’s very aware that she’s only in a towel, that her hair is wet and dripping down her back, that Abbot is looking at her with the same expression he gets before a particularly risky surgery.

“You did,” Abbot says. “But Samira -” He stops, swings his legs over the couch so he’s sitting on it properly. Samira sits next to him, her bare legs brushing his jeans. “God,” he says. “You couldn’t be dressed for this conversation?”

“Feels like I’ve got a better chance of getting my own way like this,” Samira says and Abbot laughs in spite of himself. “Am I wrong?”

“No,” he says. “No, you’re not wrong. Fuck.”

“Thank you for staying,” Samira says. “And thank you for looking after me. I’d have been fine, but… it was easier with you here.”

“I wasn’t doing you a favour,” Abbot says. “I wanted to. Which is the entire problem, really.”

“I don’t see how it’s a problem,” Samira says. She wants, very badly, to put her hand over his but he’s clearly conflicted about this and she feels like he needs to work it out for himself. “Unless - are you still seeing that woman?”

“That woman?” Abbot says, like he has no idea who she’s talking about, and then he laughs. “No. I broke it off with her after seeing you in the restaurant.”

“Oh,” Samira says, taken aback. “But - at the golf course -”

“I went on my own,” Abbot says. “I wasn’t going to talk to you, but then you were on your own and I felt like such a fucking old creep.”

“I told you where we were going to be for a reason,” Samira says. “Jack, I’m like - it’s not like-” She can’t think of a way to say it that doesn’t make it seem worse. “If you’re uncomfortable with it because of the hospital hierarchy,” she says at last, “then I get it.”

“I don’t give a shit about the hospital,” Abbot says roughly. He curls his hands into fists then flattens them out again, flexing against his legs, like he wants to reach for her as badly as Samira does him. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you.”

“I’m not a child,” Samira says. She’s trying to stay calm but it feels like what she wants might be within her grasp, if she’s very careful, if she says the right things. “You’re also not ancient. I don’t even think you’re old enough to be my dad-”

“I am,” Abbot says. He’s still looking at her very intensely and Samira thinks of everything she’s seen him do with his hands, how careful and precise, and represses a shiver. “I looked it up.”

“Okay, fine, if you’d got someone pregnant when you were twenty,” Samira says, because she’d looked it up too. “That’s not the point. I just need to know if you want this.”

Abbot touches her now - reaches out and strokes his thumb over her cheek, her lips, and Samira resists the urge to open her mouth and nip at it.

“I want it,” he says roughly, eyes dark, and Samira starts to say something but he slips his hand around the back of her head, his fingers curled in her hair, and she tips forward and kisses him instead like she’s been wanting to do since - oh, before she saw him in the bar, probably. Since the MCI and she saw him treating a patient with a blood bag attached to his leg.

He kisses like a motherfucker - sorry, Samira can’t think of any other way to word it. His stubble scrapes over her chin and she lets out a noise she didn’t know she could make and Abbot makes a sound himself, deep in his throat, and pulls her closer to him, searching for the edge of the towel.

“I don’t want to tell the hospital,” Samira pants and Abbot says, “Samira, if you’re thinking about the hospital right now then I’m doing something wrong.”

“I don’t want them to know about this,” Samira says. He’s wearing more clothes than her and that isn’t fair - she tugs impatiently at the bottom of his shirt until he gets the message and lifts his arms, letting her pull it off. “This is just for us.”

“Whatever you want,” Abbot says roughly, his legs bracketing her thighs as he gently pushes her back into the couch until she’s on her back, her hands around his neck, his hand slipping under the bottom of the towel until he makes her gasp. “You’re so wet.”

“I just got out of the shower,” Samira says, and she tips her head back and laughs when he pinches her inner thigh before he pushes her legs apart, her towel up.

“God,” he says reverently, before dipping down to taste her. Samira can’t stifle a gasp at the first stroke of his tongue and he reaches up, one hand spread on her hip even as she knots her own in his hair.

Samira is suddenly, forcibly, reminded of mini-golf, of asking if there was anything he was bad at and the way he had looked at her, before she can’t think of anything else except the way he is devouring her, messily, like he loves the way she tastes, like he can’t get enough.

He uses his other hand to touch her while his tongue is still inside her and it only takes one finger before Samira feels white-hot in a way none of the boys she’s been with before ever managed. It had always been clinical before, Samira too aware of her own anatomy, but Abbot crooks a finger inside her like he’s gesturing her over and Samira’s coming before she knows it, the way she didn’t think ever happened in real life.

“Oh my God,” she says after and Abbot laughs, pulling himself over her body to kiss her, messy and still tasting like Samira. She wants to say something pithy and clever but she’s still breathing heavily like she just ran a race, and she also feels a little bit like she might pass out. “The room is spinning.”

Abbot sits up straight away, reaching into his go-bag to pull a flask of water out.

“You’re probably dehydrated,” he says, “and you’re still recovering. Drink at least half of this.”

“You’ve definitely improved your bedside manner,” Samira says, once she’s feeling a little bit more solid, and Abbot drops his head onto her bare shoulder and says, “You’re ruining me.”

The next day, when Samira sees him, she says, “Good work, Dr Abbot.” He doesn’t drop anything - he doesn’t even react in a way that anyone else would notice, but she sees his hand tense around the scalpel.

“I’ll find you later, Dr Mohan,” he says, and Samira walks away knowing that she won’t be getting the bus on her own tonight.