the er at nearly midnight has a strange quiet to it.
not silent. never silent. machines still hum and distant voices drift down the hall, but the chaos of the evening rush has thinned into something softer. something almost calm.
you lean against the counter in the empty supply room, chart half finished in your hands. your first year as a resident has taught you many things. mostly how tired a person can be without actually collapsing.
the door clicks shut behind you. you already know who it is.
“you hiding?” harry asks.
his voice is low, amused in that quiet way that always makes your stomach flip. you glance over your shoulder.
dr. styles. lead attending in the er. calm in a crisis. annoyingly brilliant. and right now standing way too close to you for this to be appropriate in any professional world.
“i’m charting,” you say.
“mm.” he steps closer. “looks a lot like hiding.”
he’s still in scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there. you should move. you really should.
instead you stay exactly where you are.
“if someone comes in here,” you say quietly, “this is your fault.”
“my fault?” he tilts his head. “you’re the one who picked the supply closet.”
“i didn’t pick it. i walked in here first.”
“and i followed,” he says.
now he’s close enough that you can smell the faint antiseptic soap and something warm underneath it. your heart is already doing something stupid.
“harry,” you warn softly.
he smiles a little.
“doctor styles at work,” he murmurs.
“no one says that.”
“you should.”
you roll your eyes, but the moment doesn’t last long because his hand finds your waist like it already knows where it belongs.
it’s reckless. incredibly reckless.
which is probably why you let it happen.
“you’re impossible,” you whisper.
“and yet,” he says, leaning closer, “you keep meeting me in supply closets.”
you try to say something back but it disappears when he kisses you.
it’s quick at first, like both of you are still pretending you have self control. then his hand tightens slightly at your waist and suddenly the world outside the room feels very far away.
your fingers curl into the fabric of his scrubs.
“we shouldn’t,” you breathe.
“probably not,” he says, already kissing you again.
you’re halfway through telling him to stop when the door handle rattles.
both of you freeze.
the door swings open.
“hey do we have any more gau—”
nurse camila stops mid sentence.
in less than a second harry steps back like you were never touching at all. you spin toward the shelves and grab the nearest box like you’ve been searching for supplies this entire time.
your heart is pounding loud enough to be considered a medical emergency.
camila looks between you.
then harry.
then back to you.
harry clears his throat like the most professional man alive.
“resident,” he says calmly, “did you find the saline kits?”
you blink.
“…still looking.”
camila squints slightly.
the room is painfully quiet for two seconds. then she shrugs and walks to the other shelf.
“they’re literally right here,” she says, grabbing a box.
you nod way too quickly.
“great. thank you.”
harry picks up a clipboard off the counter like he has been reviewing it for hours.
“good work,” he says to absolutely no one.
camila walks out.
the door closes again. three seconds pass.
you slowly turn toward harry. he’s already looking at you.
walk, listen, write notes, try not to embarrass yourself in front of the attending.
you’re halfway through the list of patients when dr. evans glances at your chart and hums thoughtfully.
“this was your call last night?” he asks.
you nod, trying not to look nervous. “yes, sir.”
he scans the notes again.
“good work,” he says, tapping the page. “most first years wouldn’t have caught that.”
your chest warms a little at that. it’s rare for attendings to say anything beyond a quick correction.
“thank you.”
the team moves on to the next room.
when you step into the hallway again, you catch sight of harry at the far end of the corridor talking to a nurse. he’s not technically part of your rounds today, but he’s around.
his eyes flick toward the group for a moment. just a second. long enough to notice dr. evans still speaking to you.
“seriously,” evans continues, walking beside you, “that differential was sharp thinking. keep that up and you’ll survive residency.”
you laugh a little under your breath. “that’s the goal.”
you don’t see harry again until much later.
the er has settled into its late night rhythm, fluorescent lights buzzing softly above empty stretchers. you’re reviewing labs at the nurses station when a voice behind you says quietly,
“walk with me.”
you don’t even turn around.
“that sounds ominous.”
“now,” he says.
you sigh but follow him down the hallway anyway.
he leads you into the supply room and shuts the door. not suspicious at all.
you cross your arms lightly. “what’s wrong?”
harry leans against the counter, watching you in that unreadable way he has when he’s thinking too much.
“dr. evans seems to like you.”
you blink.
“…what?”
“during rounds,” he says. “he was practically glowing.”
you stare at him for a second before realization creeps in.
“are you serious right now?”
“i’m just observing.”
you huff a quiet laugh. “he complimented a chart note.”
“twice.”
“because i did a good job.”
harry doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tightens slightly like he’s trying to decide if he wants to say the next thing.
“you did,” he says finally. “i read it.”
that makes you pause.
“you read my chart?”
“i read all the charts.”
“that’s a lie.”
his mouth twitches but he doesn’t deny it.
you tilt your head at him. “you’re jealous.”
he immediately scoffs. “i’m not jealous.”
“you dragged me into a supply room to complain about another doctor complimenting me.”
“i didn’t complain.”
“you absolutely complained.”
for a second the room is quiet. then he pushes off the counter and steps closer.
“i just didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” he says softly.
your heart does something annoying.
“how was he looking at me?”
“like he noticed you.”
you raise an eyebrow. “harry. people are allowed to notice me.”
“i’m aware.”
“in fact,” you continue lightly, “that’s usually how being a person works.”
he exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to smile.
“you’re enjoying this.”
“a little.”
you shift closer without thinking. the space between you disappears until the edge of the counter presses lightly against your hip.
“for the record,” you say quietly, “i’m not secretly in supply closets with dr. evans.”
harry’s eyes flick down to your mouth.
“good,” he murmurs.
his hand finds your waist before either of you can pretend this is still a normal conversation.
“because,” he adds, voice low, “that would be very unprofessional.”
