Im Back? @tendous-fingertape - Tumblr Blog

Apr 1

Under Fluorescent Lights

Pairing: Frank Langdon x Reader

Synopsis: You’re the newest ER resident, fighting to prove yourself under the relentless scrutiny of Doctor Langdon, brilliant, distant, and impossible to read. When a fellow resident’s unwanted attention starts crossing lines, Dr. Langdon begins to take notice. Tags: Workplace Tension, Jealousy, Forced Proximity, Protective Langdon, Power Imbalance, Sharp Banter, Mutual Pining, Emotional Confrontation, Eventual Kissing Warnings: **Unwanted Advances**, Workplace Stress, Cold calling, Power Dynamics, Emotional Distress, Medical Setting Words: 10k~

A/N: I am not American and have the barely any knowledge of how US medical school works so please ignore any inaccuracies!!

You're a new resident in the ER, the bottom of the food chain, badge still shiny under fluorescent lights, white coat not yet saturated with antiseptic and exhaustion. Your handwriting is still neat, your pockets still organized: penlight, trauma shears, folded index cards with drug doses written in careful ink.

You don't report to him directly. Technically. But in the way gravity technically doesn't report to the sun, you still orbit Dr. Langdon. You work with him. Somewhat under him. He doesn't sign your evaluations, but he signs off on your decisions with a look. Working relationship? None in sight. In fact, there is no relationship at all.

Your first week, you were bright-faced and buzzing with nervous energy, practically vibrating with inexperience and caffeine. You came early, stayed late, introduced yourself to everyone, nurses, techs, environmental services, even the attending who barely glanced up. You practiced your greeting before approaching Langdon. Professional. Confident. Approachable. You found him at a workstation, scrolling through labs like they personally offended him, jaw set, blue-gray eyes moving fast over the screen. You stepped forward anyway.

"Hi, my name is-"

"I need an ECG for room 5."

It wasn't loud. It wasn't rude. It was simply... final. He brushed past you mid-sentence, shoulder almost clipping yours, eyes already locked on another screen. No smile. No acknowledgment. Not even a nod. Just a task.

You stood there half a second too long, blinking at the empty air where he'd been, your prepared words shriveling in your mouth. Okay. Maybe not the best first impression. But you've had ego-driven seniors before, surgeons who bark, residents who talk over you, fellows who treat interns like background noise. You told yourself it wouldn't get to you. Some doctors treat interns like walking clipboards. It's nothing personal

Except with Langdon… it feels personal.

Not because he snaps or belittles you, he doesn't. He simply erases you. He moves around you like you're part of the furniture, like the crash cart or the supply cabinet. You'll present a patient and he'll redirect his gaze to the monitor before you finish your second sentence. You'll stand beside him in a trauma and he'll hand instruments past you like you're a gap in space. He never mispronounces your name because he never says it. The only acknowledgment comes when he orders scans or assigns the tedious exams no one else wants: "Full neuro exam. Rectal. Document everything." No inflection. No praise. No irritation. Just efficiency.

You begin to wonder if you've offended him somehow, if you said something wrong in that half-finished introduction, if he's already decided you're incompetent.

And worse is when he decides to quiz you. In front of everyone. It happens without warning. You'll be mid-sentence presenting, heart pounding but voice steady, and suddenly: "What's the mechanism of action? What's the dose adjustment in renal impairment? Why are we not worried about this potassium?" The entire workstation goes quiet. Monitors beep, keyboards click somewhere distant, but around you there's silence. You can feel everyone watching, feel the heat climbing your neck before the question's even finished. And he stands there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, not cruel, not mocking, but unrelenting. Observing you like a case study, like pressure applied to see where the structure cracks.

Sometimes you get it right. Relief flickers through your chest. Sometimes you stumble, your brain scrambling because under his gaze the information feels locked behind a door you can't open. And when you stumble, he doesn't rescue you. He waits. Eyes steady. Clinical. Almost like he gets off on watching your ears slowly turn red.

You hate that your body betrays you like that, heat creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks. You hate that your pulse pounds so loud you're convinced he can hear it. You hate that he notices. Because he notices everything: your hesitations, your second guesses, the way you grip your pen too tight, the way your breathing changes when you're unsure. He doesn't smile when you're right, just a short nod and a quiet "Good," as if competence is the baseline and approval unnecessary. But when you miss something, his correction is precise and sharp: "You're thinking too small. Don't anchor. You're not listening." Not cruel. Just exact.

You go home some nights replaying his voice in your head more than your patients. You'll be brushing your teeth and suddenly hear, “Diagnosis?” You'll lie in bed thinking about the way he narrowed his eyes when you hesitated. You tell yourself it's educational, that this is how you get better. And the worst part? You can't even say you dislike him.

He's brilliant.

You've watched him drop central lines like it's muscle memory, smooth, controlled, no wasted movement. Watched him read an EKG in three seconds and call a cath lab activation before anyone else saw it. You've seen attendings defer to him without realizing they're doing it. He moves through the ER with sharp assurance, diving into cases with quick, bold moves. He thrives here. The chaos seems to hum in tune with him, like he's tuned to the same frequency as crashing vitals and overhead pages. He requires little to no supervision. He makes sound judgment calls. He is a natural. Patients stabilize under his hands. Nurses trust his orders. Other residents watch him the way you do, carefully.

And you? You are just trying not to drown. You're triple-checking doses, replaying histories in your head, second-guessing your differentials, trying to look composed while your insides buzz with constant self-evaluation.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter that he's never asked where you're from. Never asked how you're settling in. Never once used your name unless it's attached to a task. You tell yourself you don't care that when other attendings laugh at something you say, he doesn't even glance up. That when you stay late to finish notes, he leaves without looking back. You tell yourself it's better this way. Clean. Professional. Unattached.

Except safe is a lie you tell yourself when you don't want to admit you're lonely.

By the end of that first week, your throat is raw from swallowing questions. Your feet ache in a way that makes you feel older than you are. You’ve learned the geography of the department, where the crash carts hide, which nurses will teach you without making you beg, which attendings like bullet points instead of paragraphs. You’ve learned how to move quickly without looking like you’re running.

What you haven’t learned is how to exist here as a person.

Because Langdon doesn’t leave room for personhood. Around him, you become a set of tasks. A pair of hands. A voice delivering data. And when he erases you, you start erasing yourself too, tightening your smile, shrinking your presence, making yourself smaller so you can be overlooked on purpose instead of by accident.

So when someone finally looks at you like you’re not just another intern-shaped obstacle in the hallway it hits harder than it should.

The other intern starts paying you attention in a way that feels deliberate.

It begins so small you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

His chair nudges closer when you’re both charting. Not close-close, not touching, but enough that the wheels squeak and the gap between your elbows becomes a suggestion instead of a fact. He angles his screen a fraction toward you like you’re a team. He asks questions he could absolutely look up himself.

“Hey,” he says one night shift, voice pitched low over the constant chorus of monitors and overhead paging, “what did you put for your differential on the syncope in 12?”

You blink at him. “Uh. Orthostatic, arrhythmia, anemia… dehydration… PE because she’s on oral contraceptives and -”

He grins. “See, that. Your brain. I like it.”

You stare at the note you’re writing, suddenly unable to remember how to spell dehydration.

Dating is the last of your worries. You’ve got exams that sit like bricks in your stomach, the kind you can’t chew through or swallow, just carry. You’ve got skills checklists. You’ve got a list of procedures you’re terrified you’ll never get smooth at. You’ve got attendings with eyes like scalpels and nurses who have seen every brand-new intern fall apart at least once.

You do not have time for any of it.

“You’re doing fine,” he adds, as if he can read the thought scrawled across your forehead. He swivels his chair another inch closer. “Seriously. First week is brutal. I nearly cried in the supply closet.”

You snort despite yourself. “You?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in like he’s telling you a secret. “Because I couldn’t find the right size IV catheter and a trauma rolled in and I thought I’d end up on the news as ‘intern who killed a man with incompetence.’”

Your laugh escapes you before you can trap it. It feels warm in your chest. Dangerous.

He keeps talking. About normal things. Safe things. The cafeteria coffee that tastes like someone tried to brew despair. The bizarre number of adults who come in convinced they’re dying because they ate a gummy vitamin on an empty stomach. The way the overhead voice always sounds slightly disappointed in everyone.

You find yourself relaxing around him in the same way you relax when you finally take off shoes that have been pinching you all day. It’s not romantic, you tell yourself. It’s not like that.

It can’t be like that.

Because the ER is a world that eats softness for breakfast.

And because Dr. Langdon is still moving through it like a blade.

Dr. Langdon notices.

You don’t see it at first, because you’ve trained yourself not to look at him unless you absolutely have to. Not because you’re terrified, though there’s a small, humiliating part of you that is, but because attention from him has never meant anything good.

Attention from Langdon means scrutiny.

It means: Why didn’t you order that? Why is this missing? What’s your plan?

It means: Say it. Out loud. In front of everyone.

It means the slow, creeping heat up your neck while the other interns suddenly become very interested in their keyboards.

So you adapt.

You keep your eyes on your work. On your patients. On the numbers. On the tiny order sets and lab trends and checkbox decisions that feel like they weigh a thousand pounds when you’re new and everything could be a mistake.

You make yourself smaller around him.

Efficient. Neutral. Unremarkable.

You do not look at him.

But you feel him anyway.

You feel him the way you feel a storm building, pressure shifting, air charged, something metallic under your tongue. The sense that if you glance up, you’ll find his eyes already there.

It’s subtle at first.

You’re at the central station, charting. The department hums in the background, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, a stretcher rattling past, the overhead pager clearing its throat before announcing another consult.

Evan slides his chair closer.

Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just enough that the wheels squeak softly against the floor.

His knee bumps yours under the desk.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t move away.

“Mm,” you reply, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen like the sodium level in room twelve is the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen.

Evan leans slightly toward you, pointing at your note. “You’re writing like… a lot.”

“It’s thorough,” you say defensively.

“It’s pretty,” he says, too earnest.

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you and tilts upward. “That’s not a word anyone’s ever used for my documentation.”

He shrugs, smiling. “First time for everything.”

You both laugh, quiet, contained, like you’re not sure laughter is allowed here.

It’s small. Harmless. Normal. And that’s why it stands out.

Because normal doesn’t live here very long.

Across the department, someone calls, "Trauma to bay two!" The world shifts instantly, chairs scrape, nurses move, someone swears, a monitor alarm spikes. You and Evan stand in tandem, chairs skittering back. Your pulse jumps ahead of you, already in trauma mode. You grab your stethoscope, brain switching gears so fast it almost hurts.

You jog toward the bay and nearly collide with Dr. Langdon.

He's moving in the opposite direction, purposeful and fast, like the chaos parts around him by instinct. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't slow. You misjudge the distance. Your shoulder clips his chest, solid, unyielding, and the impact sends a sharp jolt through you. Your balance tips backward, stomach dropping as your heels slide against the polished floor.

And then his hands are on you. Both of them. Firm and strong. One gripping your upper arm, the other catching your opposite shoulder, fingers spreading instinctively to steady you before you can tumble. The contact is automatic, reflexive, controlled, but solid enough that you feel it everywhere. Through the thin cotton of your scrubs, straight to your pulse. His grip is steady, grounding, decisive. For a breath, you're chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that your brain blanks entirely.

You look up. He's already looking down at you. Not annoyed, not amused. Focused. His jaw tightens slightly, eyes scanning your face as if confirming you're upright, intact.

"You need to watch where you're going," he says, voice low and even. But there's something under it, sharper than irritation.

Your hands are still half-raised from the impact, fingers curled against the front of his scrub top. You hadn't realized you'd grabbed him.

"I- sorry," you breathe.

He doesn’t release you immediately. His hands remain at your arms a fraction longer than necessary, like he's making sure you're steady, like he's reluctant to let go before he's certain you won't fall. Then, slowly, his grip loosens. His fingers slide away from your sleeves. The absence of his touch feels abrupt.

"Room five's ECG?" he asks.

Back to business. Back to clinical tone. But your skin is still buzzing where he held you. And you're suddenly very aware that in a department full of motion and noise, he was the only thing that didn't move. This time he's not looking past you. He's looking at you. Really looking.

"I ordered it," you say quickly, throat tight. "It should be-"

"It should be done," he cuts in. Same tone, same efficiency. Except his fingers don't leave your elbow right away. You become acutely aware of everything, how close he's standing, how steady his gaze is, how your skin feels too tight.

"Go," he says.

You nod, stepping out of his grip. The loss of contact is almost as noticeable as the touch itself.

Behind you, Evan says, "Hey-" and then stops, like he's just realized he shouldn't have spoken. You risk a glance back. Evan is staring at Langdon the way you stare at a dog that hasn't decided whether to bite. Langdon doesn't look at him at first. Then he does. Brief. A glance. But it's cold and direct and unmistakably territorial. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

He turns away, already moving toward trauma bay two with that confident, clipped stride, quick, bold, certain. Gloves snapping onto his hands as he walks. Voice cutting cleanly through the noise as he calls for airway equipment.

But as he passes the central station, his gaze sweeps the desk where you and Evan had been sitting. Where the chairs were too close. Where your knees had touched.

He slows. Just a fraction. Barely perceptible.

And then he's moving again.

The thing about Langdon is that he exists in two speeds, with no comfortable middle ground. One is absolute stillness, standing at the foot of a bed, hands in his pockets, watching monitors like they're about to confess something. The other is sudden, decisive action: gloves snapping on, voice cutting through chaos, ordering the room into obedience without ever raising it. You've seen him drop a central line like it was nothing, intubate like breathing, read an EKG and decide someone's fate in seconds. You've also seen him stare blankly when a patient cries, like he's waiting for the crying to finish so the real conversation can continue.

You don't know what he is right now, stillness or action. He's leaning against the nurse's station, coffee in hand, pretending to read a chart. But you know he saw. He saw Evan's chair close to yours. He saw Evan leaning in. He saw you laughing. It shouldn't matter. It's ridiculous that it does. But you feel the weight of his attention anyway, heavy and wordless, pressing against the back of your neck like a hand you can't brush away.

That night, you find yourself in the supply room, restocking IV kits. It’s a small, quiet way of being helpful, trying to be useful, trying to be the kind of intern people don’t regret letting into the room. The space is narrow and overbright, shelves stacked to the ceiling with gauze, syringes, saline flushes, and IV start kits in plastic-wrapped bundles that crinkle when you touch them. It smells faintly of antiseptic and cardboard, and the fluorescent light hums overhead like it’s tired too. You count under your breath as you stack the kits, one, two, three, because if your hands are busy, your brain doesn’t spiral.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, the sound too loud in the small room. You hesitate before pulling it out, as if you already know who it is. You coming to grab coffee after? – Evan. You stare at the message like it’s a trick question, like there’s a correct answer and you’re about to choose wrong. You want to say no. You want to say you don’t have time, that you have to go home and study and sleep and prepare for tomorrow like you’re about to climb a mountain barefoot. You want to be disciplined, focused, untouchable. But you also want to say yes. Because you’re lonely. Because the ER is loud and relentless, and you’re new and trying so hard not to make mistakes that you’ve stopped breathing properly. Because every interaction with Langdon feels like a test you didn’t know you were taking, while Evan’s attention feels easy. Dr. Langdon’s attention, on the other hand, feels like a spotlight you can’t escape.

You type: Maybe. I’m still on shift. The three dots appear almost immediately. I’ll wait. Your heart does something annoying and fluttery at that, something you don’t have time for. You tuck the phone away quickly, as if someone might see it and confiscate it, and grab another box of saline flushes.

You step sideways to reach the upper shelf, and nearly walk right into Dr. Langdon. He’s standing in the doorway, blocking most of the light like a cutout, like he’s been there long enough to watch you but not long enough for you to notice. Your pulse spikes. He’s in navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up slightly, forearms bare. He looks less like a physician and more like something carved sharp and deliberate out of the chaos. His face is the same calm mask you’ve come to resent, composed, impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flick briefly to your pocket, then back to your face.

“Busy?” he asks. You blink. “Uh… no. Just restocking.” Your voice sounds thinner than you’d like. A pause stretches between you. He steps inside, and the room feels smaller instantly, the shelves feel closer. You’re suddenly hyperaware of how narrow the space is, how there’s nowhere to step without brushing against him. Your brain tries to supply a reason for him to be here and comes up empty. “I need a 20-gauge,” he says. You nod too quickly and point toward the upper drawer. “Top left.”

He doesn’t move. Not immediately. Instead, he looks at you, not through you, but at you like he’s trying to read a label you forgot to attach.

“You’re doing a lot of socializing,” he says. The words land hard. Not loud or angry, just extremely personal. It hits you like a slap, not because it’s cruel but because it means he noticed.

Your mouth opens and nothing comes out for a second. “I’m- what?” you manage. His gaze doesn’t waver. “At the station.”

Heat floods your face, immediate and humiliating. “We were charting,” you say, defensive before you can stop yourself. “And talking. It’s not, I mean, it’s not like I’m neglecting patients.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he replies. There’s a faint, dry edge to his tone, not mocking, not quite, but more like something sharpened and carefully controlled. “Though I can see why you’d jump to that conclusion.” Your nails dig into your palm. “Why are you even-”

He moves then. Steps closer. Close enough that you have to shift backward slightly to avoid bumping into the shelving behind you. He reaches up past you to grab the 20-gauge catheter. It’s on the top shelf, which means he has to lean in, one arm braced lightly against the metal shelving beside your head, the other reaching over your shoulder. His chest is inches from yours. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint brush of fabric as his scrubs shift, the subtle scent of antiseptic and coffee and something clean and sharp that is just him.

You’re in his bubble. Or maybe he’s in yours. Either way, it’s too close. Your breath catches. His fingers close around the catheter, but he doesn’t rush to pull away. For a second, his arm is still braced beside you, his head angled slightly downward, close enough that if you tilted your chin up, you’d…

You swallow hard. He straightens slowly, stepping back just enough to create space again. He slips the catheter into his pocket.

“You’re new,” he says, voice quieter now, controlled. “Distractions don’t help.” You stare at him.

“So you’re what,” you say, pulse still unsteady. “Giving me advice?”

“I’m telling you to keep up,” he replies. There it is, the familiar tone. Cold. Professional. Precise.

He turns to leave, then stops in the doorway, like something invisible caught him by the collar. Without looking back, he adds, “Evan’s not as helpful as he looks.” You blink, thrown. “What does that mean?” His shoulders tense, just slightly, a small, betraying movement.

“It means,” he says, voice flatter now, tighter, “that not everyone who smiles at you is doing it for you.” The words hang in the air, heavy, layered. And then he’s gone. Just like that. You stand there among the saline flushes and IV kits and fluorescent hum, staring at the doorway like it might explain itself. Your pulse is still racing, your skin still buzzing where he leaned too close.

Your phone buzzes again. You almost drop it. Still alive? – Evan. You swallow. Your fingers hover over the screen longer than they should. Yeah. Just busy. You hit send. And you don’t know why your hands are still shaking.

When you step back onto the floor from the supply room, the noise hits you all at once. Monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, someone argues with radiology over a delayed scan, a stretcher rattles past with a patient clutching an emesis bag. It should feel grounding, familiar chaos, something you can disappear into, but your skin still hums where Langdon leaned in, where his arm braced beside your head, where his voice dropped just enough to make his warning feel less like professional advice and more like something else entirely.

You tell yourself to shake it off. You adjust your badge, smooth the front of your coat, force your shoulders back into something resembling composure. You are fine. You are not a first-year med student flustered by proximity. You are a resident. You have patients waiting.

Evan is at the central station exactly where you left him, perched sideways in his chair with one elbow hooked over the back. He looks up immediately when you approach. His expression changes in a way that’s almost imperceptible but unmistakable, his smile softens, his brows knit slightly.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

You busy yourself with logging back into the computer, grateful for the barrier of the screen. “Just inventory,” you reply. “Thrilling stuff.”

He doesn’t laugh. He studies you instead. “Was he in there?”

You glance at him before you can stop yourself. “Who?”

Evan’s mouth tilts knowingly. “Come on.”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough.

He swivels his chair closer, lowering his voice. “Did he say something?”

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could tell him. You could repeat Langdon’s line about distractions, about not everyone smiling at you for the right reasons. You could admit that it rattled you more than it should have. Instead, you shrug.

“It was nothing,” you say. “He needed a catheter.”

Evan’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Of course he did.”

There’s a beat of silence before he nudges a paper cup toward you across the counter. You hadn’t noticed it sitting there.

“Coffee,” he says. “I grabbed you one earlier. Figured you’d say yes eventually.”

You stare at it. You hadn’t agreed. You’d said maybe. There’s something about that, about him assuming, that makes you hesitate.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to,” you say carefully. “After shift. I have notes. And I should probably—”

“Study,” he finishes for you, smiling gently. “You always say that.”

You do hesitate. You feel it, how easy it would be to say no and retreat into the safe, disciplined version of yourself. But you’re tired. Your throat still feels tight from swallowing everything Langdon didn’t quite say.

“Maybe,” you repeat, softer this time.

Evan’s smile widens. He takes it as encouragement, as progress. “I’ll walk you to your car at least,” he says. “You don’t have to decide about coffee yet.”

Before you can respond, a voice cuts across the station.

“Room twelve’s repeat labs?”

You recognize his voice before you register the words. It cuts cleanly through the background noise of the department, steady, level, impossible to ignore. You hadn’t seen him approach. One second it was just you and Evan and the low murmur of shared conversation, and the next Langdon is there at the opposite end of the counter, close enough that his presence shifts the space.

He rests one hand lightly against the workstation, long fingers spread against the surface as he studies the patient board. He doesn’t look at Evan. He doesn’t even look at you at first. His gaze moves quickly over the columns of names and times and pending labs, absorbing everything in a way that makes you feel like the board itself is reporting to him.

“They’re pending,” you answer immediately, your voice sharper than you intend. You are suddenly very aware of how close Evan’s chair is to yours, how the paper coffee cup sits near your elbow like evidence.

Langdon’s eyes lift then.

Not the familiar quizzing look that pins you in place and demands an answer. Not the dissecting one that strips your plan down to bone. This is different. Quieter. Slower. His gaze settles on you with a kind of measured consideration that makes your stomach tighten.

“Call the lab,” he says. “They’ve been slow all night.”

There’s nothing in his tone to object to. It’s practical. Sensible. You nod and reach for the phone without argument, grateful for something concrete to do.

Beside you, Evan shifts. “I can call—”

“I asked her,” Langdon replies.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t sharpen it. The words are delivered evenly, almost mildly, but they land with the weight of a closed door. Controlled. Clean. Final.

Evan stills.

You feel the change in atmosphere immediately, a subtle tightening that hums between them. It’s the kind of shift that might go unnoticed by anyone not standing inside it, but you are standing inside it, and it makes your pulse stutter.

Langdon’s gaze drops briefly, and for a moment you think he’s returned to the board. He hasn’t. His eyes flick downward, not to your face, but to the space between you and Evan. To the angle of your chairs. To the proximity that had felt harmless a minute ago. To the coffee cup by your hand.

Then his eyes return to you.

“Room eight needs reassessment,” he says. “Now.”

You almost tell him you were about to go. The words rise instinctively to defend yourself, to prove you’re not distracted, not careless. But something in his expression holds you back. It isn’t irritation. It isn’t disappointment. It’s something more tightly drawn, something that feels less like critique and more like containment.

“Yes,” you say instead.

You push your chair back and stand. Evan stands too, instinctively falling into step with you. “I’ll come with—”

“No,” Langdon interjects smoothly. He shifts his attention to Evan for the first time, though he doesn’t fully face him. “You’re with me in bay three.”

Evan hesitates. “I thought I was—”

“You’re with me,” Langdon repeats, already turning away as if the matter is settled.

He doesn’t look back at Evan again. He doesn’t need to. The authority in his tone is enough.

You walk toward room eight with your heartbeat drumming faintly in your ears, acutely aware that Langdon didn’t accuse you of anything. He didn’t comment on the coffee. He didn’t mention Evan by name. He didn’t need to.

He simply rearranged the room.

And in doing so, he separated you.

Through the glass panels, you catch a glimpse of him in bay three. He stands beside Evan now, posture relaxed, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other gestures lightly toward the monitor. His voice carries in low, measured tones, the same voice he uses when he’s instructing, when he’s teaching without humiliation. Anyone watching would see nothing unusual. Just a senior resident guiding a junior.

But there’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. A slight tension at the edge of his mouth.

Evan listens, nodding stiffly.

For a brief moment, Langdon’s eyes lift from the monitor and travel across the department.

They find you. It isn’t accidental. It isn’t wandering. It’s deliberate.

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s no clinical distance in that look. No impersonal assessment. It feels direct in a way that makes your breath catch, as if he’s measuring something that has nothing to do with lab values or vital signs.

You look away first.

You tell yourself it’s because you have a patient waiting.

For the rest of the shift, the undercurrent remains. It isn’t loud or explosive. There’s no confrontation. No raised voices. Just presence.

Langdon appears at your shoulder more often than strictly necessary, leaning in to review your notes and correcting details that are technically fine. He redirects you to different rooms whenever Evan drifts too close, assigning you tasks in that calm, unarguable tone. When he asks you questions, they sound casual to anyone listening, but there’s weight beneath them, a focus that feels personal.

He doesn’t touch you again. He doesn’t mention Evan. But he watches.

And you can feel it, steady and unrelenting, like a hand hovering just at the small of your back.

Over the next few shifts, the changes are subtle enough that you can almost pretend they aren’t happening.

Evan’s chair ends up beside yours more often than not. If there’s an open workstation further down the counter, he ignores it. If someone else sits near you, he finds a reason to hover. It starts with proximity and the easy comfort you’d already let yourself accept. His knee brushes yours under the desk during charting, and at first you assume it’s accidental. The second time, he murmurs a soft apology without moving away. By the third time, you realize he’s angling his body toward you deliberately, his thigh resting just close enough that you’re aware of the contact even when you’re trying not to be.

When you pass charts back and forth, his fingers graze yours. The touch lingers half a second longer than necessary. He smiles each time, casual, like there’s nothing loaded in the gesture at all. It would be easy to dismiss it as friendliness if you weren’t starting to feel the pattern.

He compliments your work constantly, and at first it’s harmless. “Your notes are always the clearest.” “You think through things better than most of us.” It’s validating in a way that feels almost dangerous after the steady pressure of Langdon’s scrutiny. Where Langdon finds gaps, Evan highlights strengths. Where Langdon pushes, Evan reassures.

But then the compliments shift.

“You know,” Evan says one night as you’re both reviewing labs, “you’re wasted trying to get his approval.”

You glance at him. “What?”

He nods subtly toward the far end of the station where Langdon stands with a nurse, reviewing imaging. “You work harder than anyone here. And he acts like you’re just barely keeping up.”

Your jaw tightens. “He doesn’t act like that.”

Evan raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t even look at you unless he’s quizzing you.”

The words hit closer than you want them to.

You turn back to your screen. “He looks at everyone like that.”

“Not like he looks at you,” Evan says quietly.

You don’t respond, but you feel it settle somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

Langdon does look at you differently. You’ve felt that shift. The attention that lingers a second too long. The quiet assessments that feel less clinical lately. The way he rearranges assignments without explanation.

You tell yourself it’s professional.

Evan doesn’t seem to think so.

“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he continues, softer now. “Not someone who treats you like a project.”

The comment is too personal. It crosses a line you hadn’t agreed to draw. You let out a short laugh to deflect. “I’m not looking for someone.”

“I know,” he says. “But still.”

There’s something in his tone that makes your skin prickle.

Across the department, Langdon shifts position. You don’t mean to look, but you do. He’s no longer focused on the imaging. His posture has changed slightly, weight angled toward the station. His gaze isn’t openly fixed on you, but it isn’t random either. It passes over the counter, over the cluster of residents, and lands briefly on Evan’s hand where it rests too close to yours.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

The escalation continues in increments small enough that no one else would notice.

When you’re presenting a patient, Evan steps closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours as he leans in to “add context.” When Langdon moves into the space to ask a question, Evan shifts just slightly to remain between you and him, like it’s instinctive. It’s subtle positioning, but you feel it every time.

One afternoon in the hallway outside radiology, Evan reaches for your elbow to steer you toward a case. His grip is light, but it’s firm enough that you stop walking. “You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”

You pull your arm back gently. “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

“You always tense up when he’s around,” Evan says. “You don’t do that with me.”

There’s a reason for that. Being around Evan feels easy because there’s no risk of humiliation. No sudden questions. No razor-sharp corrections. With Evan, you’re not constantly bracing.

With Langdon, you are always aware.

And lately, Langdon seems just as aware of you.

He appears beside you mid-conversation more frequently. He asks for updates directly from you, even when Evan has just spoken. When you and Evan are reviewing imaging together, Langdon inserts himself with quiet authority, leaning over your shoulder to point out a finding. His arm doesn’t touch you, but the space between you shrinks until you’re hyperaware of the heat of him.

“Your interpretation?” he asks you, ignoring Evan entirely.

You answer. He listens. The intensity of his focus feels different now. Less about exposing flaws. More about pulling something from you specifically.

Evan notices.

You can see it in the way his jaw tightens when Langdon interrupts. In the way he lingers afterward, stepping back into your space the second Langdon walks away.

It becomes a pattern.

If Evan leans in, Langdon appears.

If Evan touches your wrist while handing you a pen, Langdon assigns you to a different room.

If Evan positions himself at your side during a trauma, Langdon directs him elsewhere with a calm, unarguable instruction.

“Bay four,” he’ll say, not looking at Evan. “You’re needed.”

He never references you. He never mentions what he’s doing.

He just rearranges the board.

And every time, his gaze flicks to you afterward, measuring something.

The tension builds in layers. Easy warmth on one side. Controlled intensity on the other.

Evan grows more confident in his closeness. He stands a little nearer. Lets his hand rest at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowded hallway. Compliments your appearance once, casually, like it’s nothing. “You look good today,” he says, eyes lingering just long enough to make it clear he means more than your documentation.

You laugh it off. You tell yourself it’s harmless. But you’re aware of the way Langdon’s attention sharpens when it happens.

He doesn’t confront Evan. He doesn’t confront you. He simply watches. And that might be worse than if he did.

Because there’s no explosion. No scene. Just a steady tightening of something unspoken. His presence becomes heavier, his proximity more deliberate. When he stands beside you now, it feels intentional. When he corrects you, it feels personal.

The contrast becomes impossible to ignore.

Evan offers ease. Soft praise. Physical closeness.

Langdon offers pressure. Focus. A gaze that feels like it sees straight through you.

And the more Evan pushes, the more Langdon’s silence grows charged.

The shift is nearing its end when it happens. The waiting room has thinned, the chaos dulled into a tired hum. It’s that strange hour where the ER exhales but never fully sleeps. The overhead lights feel harsher somehow, casting everything in pale fluorescence. You tell yourself you just need to get through the last few tasks, med reconciliation in room nine, discharge paperwork in twelve, restock the airway cart because no one else will.

You duck into the medication room to grab antiemetics for a patient who hasn’t stopped vomiting since triage. The space is narrow and poorly ventilated, shelves packed with labeled drawers and locked cabinets. The lighting is softer in here, slightly dimmer than the hallway, giving everything a muted edge. The door swings shut behind you with a quiet click.

You’re reaching for the ondansetron when you hear it open again.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Hey,” Evan says quietly.

You glance over your shoulder. He closes the door more firmly this time, not aggressively, but enough that the latch catches.

“I just needed to grab something,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the shelves.

“Yeah,” he replies, stepping inside. “I figured.”

There’s less space now. The room was small before. With him in it, it feels close.

You turn back to the cabinet, trying to keep it normal. “Did you need something?”

“Actually,” he says, and his voice is different. Softer. Intentional. “I wanted to talk to you.”

You feel your shoulders tighten. “About?”

He exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter behind him. “About us.”

Your stomach drops.

“There isn’t an us,” you say lightly, trying to defuse whatever Ethan thinks is going on.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come on. You’ve been giving me a chance.”

You hesitate. That word. Chance. You remember the coffee. The maybe. The way you didn’t shut him down cleanly because you didn’t want to be harsh.

“I said maybe to coffee,” you reply carefully. “That’s not—”

“It’s not nothing,” he interrupts gently. “You didn’t say no.”

He pushes off the counter and steps closer. Not abruptly. Not threateningly. Just closing the distance inch by inch.

“You’ve been leaning in,” he continues. “Laughing. Staying. You could’ve walked away.”

Your back brushes lightly against the shelving. You hadn’t realized you’d stepped backward.

“I was just being friendly,” you say.

“And I was being more than that,” he says.

There’s something in his tone now that makes your pulse spike. Confidence. Assumption.

“You deserve someone who actually sees you,” he adds quietly. “Not someone who only talks to you when he wants to correct you.”

Your chest tightens. You know who he means. The comparison feels like a hook under your skin.

“That’s not fair,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure who you’re defending.

“I see you,” Evan says. “I see how hard you work. I see how he looks at you like you’re a problem to solve.”

You don’t answer. He steps closer again. This time, there’s no pretending it’s accidental.

Your brain blanks for half a second. It’s not violent. It’s not forceful. But it’s not invited either. The shock of it steals your breath. You freeze, muscles locked, trying to catch up with what’s happening.

“You don’t have to impress him,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

He leans in. You see it coming. You know what he’s about to do.

And still, you hesitate. Because you don’t want to make a scene. Because you don’t want to hurt him. Because you hate confrontation more than almost anything.

His other hand comes up to your shoulder, fingers curling gently but possessively. His face is inches from yours now.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not rough. Not aggressive. But it’s claiming.

Your body doesn’t respond. There’s no spark. No pull. No answering shift. There’s only heat flooding your face and the sudden, sharp realization that this is wrong.

In a spilt second you shove him back.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not a slap. Just a firm push against his chest that creates space between you.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt immediately, the words tumbling out on instinct. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”

He stares at you, stunned.

“Why are you apologizing?” he asks.

“Because I didn’t—I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea.”

“You didn’t,” he insists. “You were into it.”

Your stomach twists.

“I wasn’t,” you say, stepping sideways so you’re no longer pinned against the shelving. Your voice is quieter now, but steadier. “I wasn’t.”

His expression hardens slightly, confusion edging toward defensiveness.

“I was tired,” you say, the embarrassment burning up your neck. “And I thought we were just—”

“Just what?”

“Colleagues,” you finish.

Silence stretches between you.

You feel foolish. Guilty. Like you’ve somehow created this misunderstanding even though you know you didn’t ask for his hand on your waist.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because it feels easier than standing firm.

Evan exhales sharply. “I thought you wanted this.”

“I don’t,” you say. The words land heavier than you expect.

He studies your face for a moment, searching for something, doubt, regret, invitation. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it.

“Is it him?” he asks quietly.

Your heart stumbles.

“What?”

“Is it because of him?”

You don’t answer. The door handle rattles suddenly from the outside. Both of you look toward it instinctively.

And when it opens, it isn’t a nurse who steps inside.

It’s Langdon.

His gaze moves once, slow and deliberate.

He takes in Evan’s position first. The way Evan is standing too close to you. The way your back is angled toward the shelving instead of toward him. The small but unmistakable distance you’ve created since pushing him away. The tension still held tight in your shoulders.

Then his eyes lift to your face. There is no surprise in them. No visible anger. No flare of temper. Only calculation.

For a moment, the three of you exist in a suspended pocket of silence. The ventilation hums softly overhead. The fluorescent light flickers faintly. Your pulse is loud in your own ears.

Langdon doesn’t ask what’s going on.

He doesn’t look at Evan again immediately.

He looks at you.

“Room nine is asking for you,” he says evenly.

His voice is steady, measured, perfectly professional. Anyone overhearing it would hear nothing but routine workflow. But you know the board. You know no one paged you for nine. The lie is clean enough that no one else would question it.

You swallow. “I was just—”

“I know,” he says.

The words are quiet, but they land with weight. Not accusatory. Not sympathetic. Just certain.

Evan shifts beside you. “She’s with me.”

Langdon’s head tilts slightly, though he still hasn’t fully turned toward him. There’s a faint tightening at the edge of his mouth, so small it would be easy to miss if you weren’t watching him.

“You’re needed in CT,” Langdon replies.

It’s the same tone he uses when ordering imaging or redirecting a consult. Calm. Unimpeachable.

Evan frowns. “We were in the middle of something.”

Now Langdon looks at him.

It’s not a glare. It’s not heated. It’s colder than that. The kind of look that strips away assumption and leaves nothing but hierarchy.

“She’s needed,” he repeats, and then his gaze shifts back to you.

“Now.”

He says it to you, not to Evan.

The emphasis is subtle, but unmistakable. His eyes hold yours when he says it, steady and unwavering, as if waiting to see which direction you’ll move.

You don’t hesitate this time. “Okay.”

The word feels small in your mouth, but you step forward anyway. As you move past him, you’re acutely aware of his presence in the doorway. He shifts slightly, not enough to block anyone outright, but enough that Evan would have to brush past him to follow.

Evan doesn’t try.

There’s a flicker of irritation in his expression as he steps back. “Fine,” he mutters.

Langdon doesn’t acknowledge the tone. He doesn’t need to. He simply turns and walks into the hallway, assuming you will follow.

You do.

The ER noise crashes back in around you, bright and unrelenting. A nurse near the station glances up as you and Langdon emerge from the med room together. Her eyes linger half a second too long, curiosity sparking. Another resident pauses mid-sentence, gaze shifting between the three of you.

No one says anything out loud.

But the shift is felt.

Langdon moves through it as if nothing is unusual. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his scrubs. If someone were watching from a distance, they would see only a senior resident redirecting a junior. Efficient. Ordinary.

Except you were just inside that room.

You know it wasn’t ordinary.

“Room nine,” he says again, as if reinforcing the fiction. “They’ve been waiting on reassessment.”

His tone leaves no space for debate.

You nod and move ahead, but he doesn’t immediately peel away to another task. Instead, he remains within a few steps of you, close enough that you feel the steadiness of him at your back.

Evan reappears near the central station, jaw tight, watching. Langdon doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t address him again. The dismissal is complete.

As you reach the workstation to pull up room nine’s chart, Langdon stops beside you. He leans one hand on the counter, close but not touching, his gaze fixed on the screen.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

The question is almost clinical in delivery, but there’s nothing clinical about the way his eyes flick over your face.

It’s the first time he’s asked something like that.

You nod automatically. “I’m fine.”

His jaw shifts slightly, as if he’s weighing the truth of that statement.

“If I wanted to embarrass you,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the two of you, “I would have asked what was happening in there.”

Your breath catches.

“I didn’t,” he continues. “That was intentional.”

There’s no triumph in his tone. No self-congratulation. Just fact.

Heat spreads up your neck, but this time it isn’t humiliation. It’s something more complicated.

“I didn’t need rescuing,” you reply, the defensiveness rising before you can stop it.

His gaze sharpens slightly at that.

“I know,” he says.

The simplicity of the answer unsettles you more than any argument would have.

“Ethan must’ve missed the importance of the consent talk in medical school,” he says quietly, almost under his breath.

He saw enough. Not the kiss but enough to step in. And he did it without raising his voice, without making a scene, without staking a claim in words.

A nurse calls his name from across the station. “Dr. Langdon, they need you upstairs. A helicopter’s arriving.”

His expression shifts instantly, smoothing back into its usual controlled neutrality, the personal sealed away behind professional focus. He nods once toward the nurse, already recalibrating.

Then his eyes return to you.

“Walk with me,” he says.

It isn’t a request.

He doesn’t wait to see if you hesitate. He turns, already moving toward the elevators, long strides confident and unhurried. For half a second you consider staying where you are, consider letting the moment dissolve back into workflow. But something in the way he said it, quiet, direct, deliberate, pulls you forward.

You follow.

The department parts around him as it always does. Nurses step aside without being asked. A tech moves a stretcher just enough to clear his path. You trail half a step behind at first, then fall into stride beside him. He doesn’t look at you as you walk, but you are acutely aware of his presence. Of the contained energy in his movements, the tension held just beneath the surface.

When you reach the elevators, he presses the call button once. The doors open almost immediately.

He steps inside and turns, holding the door with one hand as it begins to slide closed.

“Inside,” he says, his gaze locking onto yours.

You step in. The elevator doors slide shut with a muted thud, sealing you into a narrow metal box that suddenly feels far too small for both of you. The noise of the ER is cut off mid-breath. No monitors. No overhead paging. No nurses moving past with charts. Just the low mechanical hum as the car begins to descend.

Langdon stands opposite you at first, hands loosely at his sides, posture composed as ever. The fluorescent light overhead casts sharp lines across his face, emphasizing the hard set of his jaw. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He presses the button for the lower floor with the same calm precision he uses to order imaging or start a procedure.

“You can’t let people corner you like that,” he says, tone level, controlled.

It sounds clinical. Detached. As if he’s discussing airway management.

You stare at the brushed steel wall instead of at him. “I wasn’t cornered.”

He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the movement even without looking. “You were,” he replies. “And you didn’t shut it down fast enough.”

Heat flares in your chest. “I handled it.”

“You froze.”

The word lands hard.

You turn to face him fully. “You don’t get to dissect that.”

His eyes meet yours then. Steady. Assessing. There’s no mockery in them, no satisfaction at catching you off balance. If anything, there’s tension threaded beneath the surface.

“You’re here to work,” he continues. “Not to manage other people’s feelings.”

Something in you snaps.

“Why do you care?” The question comes out sharper than you intended, but you don’t pull it back.

His expression doesn’t change. “I don’t.”

It’s automatic. Defensive. Too quick.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right.”

The elevator hums as it moves downward. You can feel the faint vibration through the soles of your shoes.

“If you don’t care,” you press, stepping closer despite yourself, “then why do you always target me?”

That hits. You see it. The smallest tightening at the edge of his mouth. The brief flicker in his eyes that suggests you’ve struck something real.

“I don’t target you,” he says, but the certainty in his voice isn’t as solid as it was a moment ago.

“You quiz me in front of everyone. You call on me when you could call on anyone else. You make me feel like I’m constantly one mistake away from being exposed.” Your voice is rising, not loud, but intense. “You humiliate me in front of the entire station and then act like it’s teaching.”

The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, then continues moving. Neither of you look at the floor indicator.

“I push you because you can take it,” he says quietly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You want an answer?” His composure fractures just enough for you to see the strain beneath it. “You’re capable. More than you think. And you waste time trying to make people comfortable instead of being right.”

“You think I care about making people comfortable?”

“I think you apologize when someone crosses a line instead of setting one.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer.

Not abruptly. Not aggressively. Just enough that the space between you narrows from several feet to a breath and a half.

The elevator lurches and comes to a temporary halt between floors. The lights flicker once, then steady. The mechanical hum shifts into a strained whir.

You both feel it.

Neither of you mention it.

“You warned me about him,” you say, your voice lower now, more deliberate. “Why?”

His gaze sharpens. “Because he doesn’t see you.”

The answer is immediate.

You swallow. “He does.”

“He sees attention,” Langdon corrects. “He sees access. He doesn’t understand what you are.”

“And what am I?” you challenge.

He hesitates for the first time.

The pause is small but seismic.

“You’re not naive,” he says finally. “But you don’t always recognize when someone is positioning themselves to own a piece of you.”

The words hang heavy between you.

“You don’t get to decide who gets me,” you reply, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

His jaw tightens.

“I know.”

The admission is quieter than anything he’s said so far.

The elevator remains stalled, suspended in that strange mechanical limbo. The air feels warmer. Thicker.

You take another step forward before you can stop yourself. Now there’s barely space between you. You can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“You act like I’m incompetent,” you continue, but your voice has lost some of its edge. It sounds almost unsteady now. “Like I’m a liability you’re constantly monitoring.”

His eyes darken slightly.

“If you were incompetent,” he says, “I wouldn’t waste my time.”

It’s blunt. Unvarnished. Entirely him.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

Your breathing shifts. You’re aware of it. A little faster. A little shallower.

He notices. Of course he does.

“I don’t humiliate you,” he says, voice lower now. “I refuse to let you hide behind being new.”

“And what does that have to do with him?” you press.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.

“I don’t trust him with you.”

The honesty of it knocks the air from your lungs.

The elevator hum deepens as it prepares to move again, but the car remains suspended for a few more seconds that feel longer than they should.

“You don’t trust him,” you repeat slowly. “Or you don’t trust yourself?”

The question lands harder than you expected.

His hand flexes slightly at his side.

“You think this is about me?” he asks, but there’s no heat in it. Only tension.

“I think you care,” you say. “And you don’t know what to do with that.”

Silence fills the space between you. Dense. Charged.

The elevator jolts back into motion, but neither of you break eye contact.

“You don’t get to claim me because you noticed first,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper now. “You don’t get to decide who gets close.”

He inhales slowly.

“I’m not claiming you.”

The lie is softer this time.

The elevator slows as it approaches the next floor. The subtle deceleration shifts your balance forward slightly. Instinctively, his hand lifts, hovering near your waist as if to steady you, though he doesn’t quite touch.

Your eyes drop to the space between you.

Then back up.

“You stepped in,” you say. “You redirected him. You separated us.”

“Yes.”

No denial.

“And you’re telling me that wasn’t personal?”

His jaw tightens again.

“It was necessary.”

“For what?” you demand.

His gaze burns into yours.

“For you.”

The word lands in your chest like a weight.

Your breathing falters. The space between you shrinks further without either of you consciously deciding to close it. The elevator hum is the only sound now, mechanical and distant.

“I don’t need protecting,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“But you did it anyway.”

“Yes.”

The silence between you stretches so tight it feels like it might snap.

The elevator hums as it descends, but the sound is distant, mechanical, nothing compared to the sound of your own breathing. You're standing too close now. You don't remember stepping forward, and yet there's barely an inch of space between your bodies. The fluorescent light above flickers faintly, washing his face in pale sharpness, jaw clenched, eyes darker than they were moments ago.

"You don't get to decide who gets me," you say again, but the edge in your voice has thinned into something more fragile. More honest.

His chest rises slowly, deliberately. "I know."

He says it like it costs him something.

You hold his gaze, refusing to look away this time. "Then stop acting like you do."

Something shifts in his expression then. Not anger. Not control. Something far more dangerous.

"You think I don't know that?" he asks quietly. His voice is lower now, rougher around the edges. "You think I don't know I don't get to—"

He cuts himself off.

The elevator jolts slightly as it slows, the mechanical tension mirroring the strain in the air between you. You feel the deceleration pull you forward a fraction. His hand comes up instinctively to steady you, fingers wrapping around your waist before he can stop himself.

The contact is firm. Unthinking. You both freeze. His grip tightens.

For a split second, neither of you move. Your hands are hovering near his chest, your breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. His thumb presses into the small of your back, anchoring you there.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

And something in him snaps.

His hand leaves your waist only to slide upward, fingers curling around your jaw. Not gentle. Not tentative. His palm is warm and solid against your skin as he tilts your face up toward his.

The kiss is sudden.

It isn't careful. It isn't sweet.

It crashes into you.

His mouth finds yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. There's no soft lead-in, no hesitant brush. It's hunger and frustration and restraint breaking all at once. His grip on your jaw tightens just enough to hold you in place, to keep you there.

For half a second, you freeze.

Shock flares through you, bright and blinding.

And then you kiss him back.

Your hands fist into the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. The world narrows to heat and breath and the solid line of his body pressed against yours. The kiss deepens, not slow but desperate, like something long denied finally breaking free.

He makes a low sound against your mouth, almost angry, almost undone.

"Tell me to stop," he breathes, the words rough against your lips. But his mouth doesn't leave yours, can't leave yours, and his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Tell me you don't want this."

You don't tell him anything. You can't. Your brain has stopped functioning entirely, reduced to nothing but sensation, the heat of his palm against your skin, the press of his body, the way his breath hitches when you tug him closer.

His other hand slides back to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the tension in him, the battle between control and want playing out in the way his fingers flex against your side. He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper, like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, like he's been thinking about this far longer than he'll ever admit.

"You have no idea," he murmurs between kisses, voice frayed, "what it's been like. Watching you. Every single day."

His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, hot and insistent.

"Watching him touch you."

His teeth graze your pulse point, just enough to make you gasp.

"Smile at you."

His hand presses harder against your lower back, arching you into him.

"While I stood there. Pretending I didn't notice."

You can barely breathe. Your fingers twist tighter into his scrubs, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his chest where the V-neck gaps.

"Dr Langdon—"

The kiss slows then, just slightly. Just enough to feel every point of contact, every slide of tongue, every shared breath. His thumb traces slow circles against your hip, grounding you both.

It is not gentle. It is not careful. It is everything you both tried not to let happen.

The elevator dings.

The sharp chime slices through the heat between you, dragging reality back into the small metal box.

Langdon pulls away first.

Not gently. Not reluctantly.

Abruptly.

His hand drops from your face as if the contact has burned him. He steps back, putting a fraction more distance between you, though the air still feels charged and thin. His chest rises and falls harder than you’ve ever seen outside of a code, breath controlled but not steady. His jaw is set tight, a muscle ticking faintly near his temple. His eyes are bright, too bright, and there’s something raw there, something unguarded that he would hate anyone else seeing.

“This is a mistake,” he says, voice rougher than usual, like the words have scraped their way out of him.

You don’t trust yourself to speak. You nod, staring at the closed doors in front of you, trying to slow your breathing, trying to gather whatever professionalism you have left and stitch it back into place.

The doors slide open.

Noise floods in, voices overlapping, monitors chiming, the distant whir of a stretcher being rushed past.

You step out first.

He follows.

For a few steps, you walk side by side without touching, without speaking. He has already rebuilt the mask, shoulders squared, expression composed, the efficient senior resident returning to his post as if nothing has happened. If anyone were watching, they would see nothing but hierarchy restored.

You make it halfway down the corridor before curiosity gets the better of you.

You glance back. Just for a second. You expect to find him cold again. Distant. Regretful.

Instead, you catch him watching you.

And he is trying, very clearly trying, not to smile.

It’s subtle at first. The faintest curve threatening the corner of his mouth. The tightness in his jaw isn’t anger anymore; it’s restraint. Not of temper. Of amusement. Of satisfaction.

Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest.

For all his talk of mistakes, he doesn’t look like a man who regrets what he just did.He looks like a man who has finally stopped pretending.

The sight cracks something in you. You feel it before you can stop it, the answering lift at the corner of your own mouth. You try to suppress it. You fail.

Your eyes meet fully this time and something unspoken passes between you. The tension breaks.

A quiet, breathless laugh escapes him first, low, almost disbelieving. It pulls a matching sound from you, soft and incredulous and a little wild. You both turn your faces slightly away as if that will make it less obvious, less dangerous, but the laughter lingers in your eyes.

No one around you notices.

To everyone else, this is just another shift. Another trauma incoming. Another page overhead.

But the axis has shifted.

He straightens, composure sliding back into place, though the ghost of that almost-smile remains.

“Helicopter’s landing in two,” he says, voice steady again, but warmer somehow.

You nod, pulse still racing.

Everything has changed.

And as you fall into step beside him, the chaos of the hospital helipad rushing up to meet you, one thought threads clean and undeniable through the noise.

This is going to be interesting.

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