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Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they had a personal vendetta against Harley Sawyer’s last shred of patience.

He stood at the edge of the operating room, arms crossed, expression flat. The patient had been wheeled out twenty minutes ago. Surgery had gone well—textbook aneurysm, clean clip, no surprises. And yet here he was, still stuck in his scrubs, listening to a nurse explain how the family “just had a few more questions” like he was a personal concierge to everyone’s emotions.

“Dr. Sawyer, the mother just wants to know—”

“No.”

The nurse blinked. “Sorry?”

“No,” Harley repeated, calmly, coolly, like he was declining a latte. “I removed the thing trying to murder her son. I’m not also going to be her therapist.”

He turned on his heel and walked off before she could protest, the echo of his shoes punctuating each step like an eye roll made audible.

He made it exactly five feet before—

“Harley!”

He stopped. Groaned. And turned around like a man facing execution.

Leith Pierre, Head of Neurosurgery and caffeine-deprived demigod of paperwork, waved him over with a clipboard and a headache behind his eyes.

“I’m going to make this quick,” Leith said, without greeting. “You’ve got a new partner.”

“I reject him,” Harley said immediately.

“You haven’t met him.”

“Don’t need to. I reject him on principle.”

Leith pinched the bridge of his nose like Harley had been personally responsible for killing every brain cell he had left. “You’re not rejecting him. I’m assigning him. Because you are,” he flipped through the chart with unnecessary aggression, “impossible to work with, and if I have to receive one more complaint from a resident about your ‘cold, terrifying presence’—”

“That was one time—”

“—and the interns have started calling you ‘Ice Lord.’”

“Honestly? Kind of metal.”

Leith looked like he was either going to fire Harley or throw the clipboard at him. Possibly both.

And then, right on cue, the ER doors swung open like the dramatic reveal in a made-for-TV movie.

“Hey, which one of you is the guy with the stick surgically lodged up his—oh. Found him.”

The voice was bright. Too bright. It was like sunshine and bubblegum and Red Bull had formed a sentient being and given it medical credentials.

Harley blinked.

The man approaching wore a white coat (with something that looked like doodles on the pocket), sneakers, and a lanyard full of pins. His hair was slightly too long. His smile was slightly too wide. His vibe was offensively upbeat.

“I’m Parker Ferguson,” he said, sticking out a hand like they weren’t in the middle of a passive-aggressive showdown. “New transfer from Seattle Grace—well, technically fired, but it was a very funny misunderstanding involving a scalpel, an MRI machine, and a ferret—anyway. Super stoked to work with you, Ice Lord.”

Harley stared at the hand like it had insulted his mother.

Parker wiggled his fingers. “You’re not a handshake guy, huh? That’s fine. I’m adaptable.”

“Leith,” Harley said slowly, dragging his eyes away, “you’ve given me a Muppet.”

“No,” Leith said, already walking away like he regretted every decision he’d ever made, “I’ve given you a chance to stop being a pain in my ass.”

Parker beamed. “This is going to be fun.”

Harley sighed. Deeply. Eternally. The kind of sigh that echoed through the ages.

He was officially living in hell.

Harley found Stella in the staff lounge, seated cross-legged on the worn leather couch with a mug that read "World’s Okayest Pediatrician." She looked up and smiled as he stormed in like a caffeine-deprived hurricane.

“Something wrong, Doctor Sunshine?” she asked sweetly.

“Leith has officially lost his mind,” Harley snapped, flinging himself into the chair across from her with the grace of a sulking teenager. “He’s paired me with a human migraine in a lab coat.”

Stella raised an eyebrow. “The new transfer? Parker?”

“He has stickers on his stethoscope.”

“That’s...cute?”

“It’s a medical instrument, not a third-grade binder.”

Stella took a sip from her mug, utterly unbothered. “You don’t like him because he smiled at you.”

“I don’t like him because he walked into a sterile environment like it was open mic night at a comedy club,” Harley shot back. “He called me Ice Lord. That’s not a nickname. That’s a rejected D&D character class.”

“He also said he was excited to work with you.”

Harley groaned, head falling back against the chair. “Of course he’s excited. He’s probably the kind of person who claps when the plane lands and thinks pineapple on pizza is ‘quirky.’”

“Sounds like someone’s threatened,” Stella sing-songed.

“I’m not threatened. I’m deeply annoyed. There’s a difference.”

“You’re describing emotions, Harley,” she teased. “We’re making progress.”

From the corner of the room came the distinct sound of a cough failing to hide a laugh.

Harley snapped his head toward the noise like a hawk spotting a rodent. “Newman.”

Theo, crouched beside the vending machine like some caffeine-seeking raccoon, blinked over the top of his instant ramen cup. “Don’t mind me. I’m just an unpaid observer in your emotional meltdown.”

“I don’t have emotional meltdowns,” Harley said coolly.

Theo stirred his noodles. “Right. You just have passionate outbursts about stickers and smiling.”

Harley stood. “I don’t get paid enough to deal with you.”

“You make six figures,” Theo deadpanned.

“Still not enough.”

Stella was giggling behind her mug now. “Come on, Harley. Give him a chance. Maybe Parker will be good for you.”

“I don’t need good for me. I need quiet, sterile, and emotionally bankrupt.” Harley headed for the door, muttering, “And people who don’t talk like a Pixar character.”

“You forgot the part where he’s smart,” Stella called after him. “You respect smart.”

“I respect quiet smart. He’s the kind of smart that narrates his own thought process.”

As the door swung shut behind him, Theo slurped his noodles thoughtfully. “He’s totally gonna fall for the guy, right?”

Stella just smiled and sipped her coffee.

Chapter Text

Parker had only been trying to find a post-it note. Or maybe a highlighter. Okay, fine, mostly he’d been wandering the neurosurgery floor because he was bored and a little too curious about Harley Sawyer’s natural habitat.

Which was apparently a dark office, no music, and six coffee cups in a row like a graveyard of shattered sleep schedules.

He reached for the door handle—and stopped.

Harley’s voice. On the phone.

Parker knew he should walk away. Boundaries, privacy, all that mature adult stuff he occasionally remembered to practice.

But something in Harley’s tone—quiet, tight, lacking the usual venom Parker had already grown weirdly fond of—froze him.

“Yes, sir.”

“No, I haven’t missed a payment.”

“It’s being handled.”

“…Yes, I understand.”

“…No. That won’t be necessary.”

Parker blinked.

What the hell?

Where was the snark? The sarcasm? The little biting comments Harley seemed to breathe out like carbon dioxide?

This voice didn’t sound like Harley.

It sounded like someone trying not to breathe too loudly.

There was a pause, then the click of the phone being set down. For a second, Parker thought he should just back away and pretend this never happened. But then—

“Come in, Ferguson. You’re hovering like a stalker.”

Dammit.

Parker pushed the door open with his most obnoxiously wide smile. “Only hovering out of love and mild concern.”

Harley didn’t even roll his eyes. Red flag number two. “What do you want?”

“Leith says we’ve got a case,” Parker said, plopping into the chair opposite Harley’s desk without invitation. “Severe spinal AVM. Surgery’s in three hours, and guess what? It’s a two-man job. And lucky you—you’re stuck with me.”

He expected some kind of groan. A dry insult. A withering look.

Instead, Harley just leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose like the weight of the world had relocated directly behind his eyeballs.

“Great,” Harley muttered, voice flat.

Parker tilted his head. “Not gonna complain? No rant about how I’ll probably bring stickers into the OR or breathe too loud?”

“Not today.”

There was something unsettling about this version of Harley. Like he’d been swapped out with a clone who hadn’t been fully programmed.

Parker shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “You good?”

Harley glanced up. His eyes were sharp, calculating—but not mean. Just… tired. Older than thirty-two should look.

“Fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Then you’re projecting.”

There it was. A flash of the usual Harley. Like a spark from a dying fire. Parker relaxed a little.

“Okay, okay. Just checking,” Parker said, standing and heading for the door. “I’ll scrub in. Try not to stab me. Unless it’s for educational purposes.”

Harley didn’t answer. Just turned back to his computer.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Parker hesitated in the hallway, staring at the wall like it might offer answers.

Who the hell had Harley been talking to?

And why did it make his stomach twist like something was deeply, irreversibly wrong?

Parker found Stella in the pediatric wing, crouched beside a tiny patient’s bed and gently explaining that the IV pole was not a robot—even though, yes, it did make beeping noises.

He waited until she was free, trailing her down the hallway like a stray cat with a lot of questions and no plan.

“So,” he said casually, falling into step beside her, “how well do you know Harley?”

Stella didn’t break stride. “Well enough to know this conversation is going somewhere stupid.”

“That’s incredibly rude of you and also incredibly correct.”

She sighed. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. That’s the weird part.”

Now she did pause, halfway to the nurse’s station, arms crossed. “Clarify.”

Parker lowered his voice. “I may have...accidentally overheard a phone call.”

Stella gave him a look. “Accidentally?”

“I was by his office! It’s not like I had a cup against the door, okay? I’m nosy, not creepy.”

She waited.

Parker glanced around, then leaned in. “He said stuff like ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’ and ‘it’s being handled.’ No sarcasm. No sass. Just...flat. Quiet. Obedient.”

Stella blinked slowly. “And you think that’s weird because…?”

“Because he talks to Leith like he’s trying to get fired,” Parker whispered. “He called me a sentient cupcake on day one. He is not a ‘yes sir’ kind of guy.”

Stella tilted her head. “And?”

“It bothered me!” Parker said, flailing a little. “It was like seeing a lion whisper. It gave me psychic whiplash. Who the hell was on the phone with him that could make Harley Sawyer go full submissive mode?!”

Stella turned and started walking again.

Parker hurried after her. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t pretend that wasn’t sketchy. Or sad. Or sketchy and sad.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m respecting his privacy.”

Parker squinted at her. “So you do know something.”

“I know,” she said firmly, “that it’s not your business.”

He stopped short, brows furrowing. “I wasn’t gonna go snooping, I just—”

“Parker.”

Her voice softened just enough to make him freeze.

“Don’t go snooping in other people’s business.”

“But—”

“Don’t.”

She held his gaze for a second longer, then smiled—gently, but with something heavier behind it.

“Let Harley be Harley. He’ll talk when he’s ready. Or he won’t. Either way, it’s not our place to dig through someone else’s locked drawers just because they’re closed.”

Parker looked down. Chewed on the inside of his cheek. “That’s very mature of you.”

“I contain multitudes,” she said dryly, patting his shoulder as she walked past. “Now go save someone’s spinal cord or whatever.”

Parker lingered for a moment.

He still wanted to know. Still felt that sharp tug of curiosity and concern scratching at the back of his brain like a restless animal. But… fine. He wouldn’t dig.

For now.

Chapter Text

Parker tries not to notice.

He really, truly does. He throws himself into cases. He makes dumb jokes. He starts carrying around a Rubik’s Cube just so he has something else to focus on during long consults with Harley. (It’s unsolved. Always. This is not the point.)

But then Harley goes and ruins it by being... weird. And human. And off.

It starts small.

He’s nice to a couple interns.

Not fake-nice. Not the “I read this in a leadership book” nice. No—Parker catches him explaining a tricky vascular route to a terrified first-year with the calm, almost gentle patience of someone who’s been terrified and just doesn’t want to see someone else drown in it.

Another time, Harley hands Theo a coffee without saying anything. No eye contact. No snarky comment. Just places it down and walks off.

Theo looks haunted for the rest of the shift.

Parker tells himself it’s nothing. Just Harley being unpredictable. Lizard brain behavior. It's fine.

Until the smirk disappears.

That signature little smirk—so arrogant, so dependable—it’s gone the moment Harley thinks no one’s looking. It fades like a mask slipping off. Parker catches him in reflective surfaces: the glass of a darkened OR, the microwave door in the break room, a black tablet screen. His face blank. Hollow.

He flinches once when a surgical tray clatters.

And again when someone—Eddie, of course—raises his voice during a pre-op argument. It's small, barely noticeable. A blink, a breath hitch. But Parker sees it.

And then he can’t unsee it.

The next few days become a puzzle. Parker watches Harley like he’s a painting with hidden meanings in every brushstroke. A secret behind every raised eyebrow. And damn it, it does start to feel like snooping, even though all he’s doing is paying attention. Too much attention.

At one point, during a particularly quiet afternoon, Parker finds himself standing in the supply closet pretending to organize gauze just so he can think without anyone interrupting.

“Okay, Parker,” he mutters to a box of gloves. “He’s just a guy. A very messed up guy with the emotional range of a teaspoon and a smirk quota, and—god, I’m worried about him.”

He sighs.

He hates it.

Because once you care, you’re in. And Parker, for all his noise and brightness, knows what it’s like to hurt quietly. He’s just never seen it in someone who wears their apathy like armor.

Later that evening, as they both scrub in for a late surgery, Parker watches Harley from the corner of his eye.

"Hey," Parker says casually, like he’s not a tornado of overthinking inside. "Do you ever sleep? Like... at all?"

Harley glances at him. “No, I just shut down and run diagnostics. Sometimes I dream in binary.”

Parker snorts, relieved for the banter. But now he wonders: How long has Harley been running on empty?

He tries not to let it show. He tries not to push.

But the puzzle pieces are starting to fit together—and what they’re forming looks a lot like pain no one’s dealt with in a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

Parker found Dr. Marie Paine exactly where everyone said she’d be—elbow-deep in a body.

Not a living one. A cadaver in the teaching lab.

She was a small woman with sharp eyes, latex gloves, and a monotone voice that could explain the entire lymphatic system without pausing for breath. Rumor said she once diagnosed a rare disease just by looking at the way a med student sneezed. Twice.

“Dr. Paine?” Parker asked, peeking around the doorway like a kid not sure if he was allowed inside.

She didn’t look up. “If you’re here for the Wednesday seminar, you’re 48 hours early and three semesters behind.”

“Uh, no. Not here to be educated. I mean—yes, always learning! But not in the formal sense. I’m actually here to ask you something about—well—someone.”

Her scalpel paused mid-dissection.

“Name?” she asked briskly.

“Harley Sawyer.”

Now she looked up.

And blinked.

“Oh. Him.”

Parker smiled. “Yeah. You know him, right?”

“I know of him,” Marie said, going back to her work with surgical calm. “Brilliant surgeon. Surprisingly quick with anatomical metaphors. Once told me my lecture on the hypothalamus gave him a religious experience.”

“That sounds… right.”

Marie raised a gloved hand to keep her place on the body and then asked, “What exactly do you want to know?”

Parker scratched the back of his neck. “Nothing scandalous or weird. Just... stuff. You know, like if he has siblings or any pets or where he grew up—”

“No idea,” she said.

Parker blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I don’t know if he has siblings. Or pets. Or a hometown. I assume he was born, but I’ve never seen photographic proof.”

“You’ve worked with him for years.”

Marie shrugged. “And I’ve seen Jupiter through a telescope, doesn’t mean I know what kind of music it listens to.”

“That was a metaphor, right?”

“No.”

Parker leaned against a steel table that definitely wasn’t supposed to be leaned on. “So you’ve never, like, had a conversation with him?”

“I’ve exchanged words with him,” she said. “But I wouldn’t call it a conversation. He once complimented my lecture notes and then asked if I’d ever considered abandoning academia to become a cryptid.”

Parker let out a quiet laugh. “That actually sounds kinda like him.”

“I thought it was a joke until I realized he wasn’t smiling.”

Parker pushed away from the table, his smile dimming. “So nobody knows anything about him?”

Marie gave him a look. “People know what he does. Not who he is.”

That sank in a little too deep. Parker nodded slowly, murmuring, “Like working with a ghost.”

Marie wiped her gloves clean and said, “A very sarcastic, judgmental ghost who probably drinks coffee for sustenance and spite.”

“Right.”

He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway.

“If you ever do find out something about him,” Parker said, not looking back, “can you let me know?”

Marie didn’t answer right away. Then:

“If you find out first, tell me. I’d like to know if he’s real.”

It was supposed to be a quick consult.

No one was dying. No hemorrhages. No cardiac arrests mid-hallway. Just a teenage boy who’d cut too deep on a bad day and needed someone to assess the nerve damage in his forearm.

Harley had done a thousand of these.

He didn’t even blink when it came to trauma cases. He could walk into a room full of blood and metal and broken bone and deliver a diagnosis with the same calm he used to order lunch.

So when Leith handed him the chart, he expected Harley to do what he always did.

But Harley stared at the file.

Then he handed it back.

“I’m not taking this one.”

Leith blinked. “You’re not—what?”

“I’m not taking this case.”

“No schedule conflict. No explanation. Just ‘no’?” Leith asked, blinking hard like maybe the stress had finally made him hallucinate.

Harley didn’t even roll his eyes. Didn’t make a snide comment or call Leith a stressed-out clipboard with legs. He just… looked tired.

Parker, who had wandered in mid-exchange like the human equivalent of a bouncy ball, tilted his head. “You’re not taking a case? Are you sick? Did your sarcasm gland finally rupture?”

Harley didn’t answer. Didn’t even smirk.

Parker’s smile faltered.

“…Seriously?”

“It’s not my case,” Harley muttered, already backing toward the door.

Leith looked baffled, which wasn’t new. What was new was the faint thread of concern Parker caught in the creases of his usually-exasperated expression.

“I’ll reassign it,” Leith said, not pressing. “Go cool off.”

Cool off?

From what?

Parker stayed behind, waiting for the door to swing shut before turning to Leith. “What just happened?”

Leith rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Kid’s a self-inflicted injury. No one else batted an eye. But Sawyer? He looked at that chart like it was a loaded gun.”

Parker’s stomach dropped.

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just stood there, holding the space Harley had left behind like it was made of glass.

“Do you want me to take it?” he offered, quietly.

Leith sighed. “Already handed it off. Just—keep an eye on him, Ferguson.”

Parker nodded, then left.

He found Harley in the stairwell.

Of course he did.

The man was nothing if not dramatic about brooding in medically unsafe locations.

Harley was sitting three steps down from the landing, elbows on knees, eyes unfocused. For once, he didn’t look like a storm. He looked like the wreckage after it.

Parker took a seat two steps above him, knees bumping gently against his spine.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Eventually: “I didn’t know.”

Harley didn’t look at him. “Good.”

“I mean—I didn’t mean—I’m not judging.”

Silence.

“I just… You don’t have to tell me anything,” Parker said. “But if you ever want to not talk about it in my general direction, I’m here.”

Harley huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Or a sigh. “That’s the dumbest sentence you’ve ever said.”

“I haven’t even started today. Give it time.”

Another beat of silence. The air was still.

Then Harley whispered, “I can’t look at that kind of injury without… remembering.”

And there it was—a tiny fissure in the armor. Honest. Human.

“I get that,” Parker said softly. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not even Leith. Not even yourself.”

Harley tilted his head, eyes distant. “I don’t feel like myself. I haven’t in a long time.”

Parker nodded, still not looking at him directly. “Maybe you don’t have to be the guy everyone expects. Maybe being a little broken isn’t a disqualification.”

Harley didn’t answer.

But he didn’t leave either.

Chapter Text

Parker had just stepped into the break room for a tragically lukewarm cup of coffee when he heard it.

“…can you believe it?” a voice hissed. “The Harley Sawyer. Refused. To treat someone.”

He stopped mid-step.

Behind the corner of the vending machines, just barely out of sight, three interns were huddled like witches around a cauldron of tea—both literal and metaphorical.

Kayla Hart—bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and fueled entirely by gossip and zero sleep—had her hands dramatically flung in the air like she was narrating a soap opera.

Haden Davidson, tall and perpetually confused, was frowning like someone had just given him an ethical dilemma and a sandwich he didn’t like.

And Poppy Nash, queen of side-eyes and iced coffee, sipped her drink with the sort of smug look that meant she knew something you didn’t.

“Wait, I thought that guy didn’t have feelings,” Haden said, voice low but not nearly low enough.

“He doesn’t,” Poppy said, grinning over her straw. “He’s like an AI program someone forgot to finish.”

“Yeah, but today?” Kayla leaned in. “Apparently he saw the chart, went full ghost-mode, and just… handed it back. Said ‘not my case’ and dipped.”

“Maybe he’s malfunctioning,” Poppy offered. “Should we reboot him?”

Parker’s hand tightened around his coffee.

He knew they didn’t mean harm. Not really. Interns joked like this all the time. It was how they survived 24-hour shifts and impossible expectations. A little bit of drama to spice up the soul-crushing.

But this wasn’t drama. This was Harley. His Harley—wait, no, not “his,” obviously not his—Harley. The man who’d sat in a stairwell like he was made of broken glass and whispered “I haven’t felt like myself in a long time.”

And these three were tossing that around like it was reality TV.

Parker stepped into view.

The effect was immediate.

Kayla jumped like she’d been caught stealing morphine. Haden fumbled his tablet and nearly dropped it. Poppy—bless her emotionally steel spine—just raised an eyebrow.

“Morning,” Parker said, too brightly.

They mumbled hellos.

He took a sip of his coffee, looked at them over the rim, and said, “Y’know, it’s funny. Some people treat medicine like a performance. Like it’s all about who messes up or who does something weird or dramatic. But sometimes, what you’re laughing at is someone hitting a limit.”

Silence.

Parker smiled, all teeth. “Just a thought.”

He turned and left.

Kayla whispered something.

Poppy hissed, “He heard you, idiot.”

Behind him, the gossip cauldron cooled.

Chapter Text

Parker hadn’t even taken a sip yet.

He was standing in the hallway with his steaming cup of break room regret-coffee, eyes glazed over from 36 sleepless hours, and he’d just found the perfect wall to stare at.

He wasn’t bothering anyone.

He wasn’t snooping, or asking questions, or being annoying (which he could admit happened sometimes). He was just… existing. Quietly. For once.

And then—

“Can you believe this crap?”

Cue: Eddie Ritterman, walking storm cloud in a lab coat, scowling like someone had personally offended his entire lineage.

Parker blinked, already bracing himself.

“Uh… what crap are we referring to?”

“The Harley crap,” Eddie snapped. “Mr. Neurosurgeon Extraordinaire refusing a consult like he’s some delicate flower now.”

Parker’s stomach twisted.

Eddie kept going, because of course he did.

“People have bad days all the time. Do you see me turning down patients? No. Because I’m a doctor. I do my job. Sawyer needs to get over himself or get out of the way.”

Parker’s hand clenched around the cup. Steam curled up between his fingers, forgotten.

“He had a reason,” Parker said, voice too calm.

Eddie scoffed. “Oh yeah? Enlighten me. What kind of ‘reason’ makes it okay to leave a suicidal teenager waiting in a hospital bed?”

And that did it.

Parker stepped forward. Just once. Close enough that Eddie raised a brow but didn’t back away.

“You think I don’t care about the kid?” Parker said quietly. “I do. But you know what else I care about? Doctors not burning out until they make the wrong call. Surgeons not snapping mid-procedure because no one gave a damn about their mental health.”

“Oh, so now Sawyer’s fragile?” Eddie said, arms crossed. “I thought he was the one who couldn’t shut up about professionalism and being above emotion. What happened to that Harley?”

Parker’s jaw tensed. “Maybe he realized that burying everything doesn’t work forever.”

Eddie sneered. “Or maybe he’s just not cut out for the job anymore.”

And bam, there it was. The one sentence Parker didn’t know he’d been waiting to punch someone for.

He didn’t swing—not physically. But the venom in his voice landed like a fist.

“You don’t get to decide that,” he snapped. “You don’t know what he’s been through. You think just because someone shows up every day and works like hell, it means they’re fine? It means they owe you every piece of themselves even when they’re falling apart?”

Eddie blinked.

“I’m just saying—”

“No,” Parker cut in, voice suddenly low. Dangerous. “You’re not. You’re judging someone for drawing a line one time after carrying this hospital on his back for years. If you’ve got a problem with that, maybe you’re the one who shouldn’t be here.”

Silence stretched between them like a wire about to snap.

Finally, Eddie muttered, “Touchy,” and walked off.

Parker stood there, shaking slightly, coffee now cold in his hand.

He didn’t even like coffee.

Chapter Text

Parker wasn’t proud of himself.

He knew he was starting to sound like a stalker. He knew it was none of his business. He knew he should just let it go.

But when someone walks around with a mask made of confidence and cruelty, then drops it to reveal bruises no one else sees—well. Parker had never been very good at minding his own business.

So he found himself back in the forensics wing.

“Marie?”

Dr. Marie Paine looked up from her microscope like she was disappointed it wasn’t a test tube asking for attention.

“You again,” she sighed. “Ferguson, if this is about your mystery man—”

“Did you find anything?”

Marie arched a brow. “Still no. Harley Sawyer is a ghost. No social media. No family on file. No gossip. No dog, no fish, not even a depressing plant on his windowsill. He exists only in surgical records and the collective fear of residents.”

Parker frowned. “That’s not normal.”

“No,” she said. “But it is deliberate.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

Marie stood, wiping her hands on a lab coat already decorated in a rainbow of mystery fluids. “I mean someone worked real hard to erase whatever came before the hospital.”

“…why would someone do that?”

She gave him a long look. “Usually? Because the ‘before’ was worse.”

Ten minutes and a haunted stroll later, Parker finds Stella.

She’s in the pediatric lounge, bouncing a rubber ball against the wall while a toddler sleeps in a bean bag chair.

“Hey,” Parker says, voice soft.

Stella looks up, immediately sensing The Vibe™.

“You look like you just saw a ghost,” she says.

“Not a ghost,” he mutters. “More like a vanishing act.”

She hums. “Harley?”

Parker sits beside her, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“I’ve been asking around,” he admits. “Trying to figure him out. And before you say it—yes, I know it’s probably invasive. Yes, I know it’s not my job. But I just… I want to understand. He pretends so well. But he’s hurting.”

Stella’s smile is gentle and sad.

“Of course he is,” she says softly.

That surprises him.

“You know?”

“I’ve always known,” she says. “He’s not the only one good at pretending.”

Parker turns to her, eyes wide. “So what happened?”

Stella bites her lip. Looks away. She’s quiet for a long time.

Then, finally: “He doesn’t talk about it. Not to anyone. Not even me.”

“But you know something,” Parker presses. “Please, Stella. Just—give me something. Anything.”

She hesitates.

Then, against her better judgment, she murmurs, “It wasn’t just trauma. It was systemic. Big. Messy. Something he tried to report. Someone shut it down. Hard.”

Parker’s breath catches. “Someone? Like… hospital board someone?”

“I said too much,” she says quickly, standing up. “Forget it.”

“Stella—”

“Forget it,” she says again, firm this time. “You want to help him? Be his friend. But don’t dig where you don’t understand. You’ll only make it worse.”

And with that, she walks off down the hallway, the rubber ball forgotten behind her.

Parker sits there, staring after her, a pit growing in his stomach.

What the hell happened to Harley Sawyer?

Chapter Text

Stella was minding her own business. She had a coloring book, a half-eaten granola bar, and the quiet satisfaction of a child-free thirty minutes. All was peaceful.

Then the door slammed open like a SWAT raid in a rom-com.

Harley stalked in, wild-eyed and clutching a clipboard like it had personally offended him.

She didn’t even look up. “Oh no. What’d they do this time?”

“It’s not them,” Harley said sharply.

That made her look up.

He stood there, pacing now, rubbing his temple like he was trying to physically scrub a thought from his brain. “It’s me. I’m broken.”

Stella calmly tore off a page from her coloring book and handed it to him. “Here. Crayons are on the table.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Use the glitter ones. They soothe the rage.”

Harley ignored the crayons (fool) and leaned against the window, staring out like he was in a dramatic music video. “Every time Parker walks into a room, I—God, I don’t even know—my stomach flips like I swallowed a live trout and my chest hurts. Not like heart attack hurts, more like—like something’s wrong with me.”

Stella blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then—

She absolutely lost it.

Laughter erupted out of her like a sneeze she couldn’t stop. Loud, wild, undignified joy. She wheezed. She snorted.

“I—Stella!” Harley snapped. “This is serious!”

“Oh, it is,” she wheezed, tears already forming. “You have a—wheeeeze—you have a CRUSH!”

Harley stared at her like she’d just accused him of committing arson on live television.

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re in love with Parker Ferguson!” she cried, pointing like a courtroom attorney.

Harley recoiled. “Take that back.”

“No!”

“This isn’t—no, it’s not—he’s loud!”

“And you love it!” she beamed. “Oh my God, you have feelings.”

“Don’t say that like it’s a disease.”

Stella flopped back into her chair, still cackling. “You were walking around thinking you were having heart palpitations, when actually your ice block of a heart is finally doing something normal!”

Harley sank into the nearest chair like it betrayed him. “I thought it was indigestion.”

She wheezed harder.

“I’m leaving.”

“Please don’t,” she gasped. “I need this.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m celebrating, you emotionally repressed robot!”

Harley buried his face in his hands.

This was his personal hell.

And somehow, it smelled like crayons.

Parker opened the door to the break room expecting… you know. A break room.

What he walked into instead:

• Stella doubled over, breathless and crying-laughing.

• Harley sitting rigidly in a chair like someone had frozen him mid-existential crisis.

• A box of crayons between them.

• And a coloring page with a very angry-looking bunny.

So. Not normal.

“Uh…” Parker blinked. “Should I come back later or…?”

Stella was trying to stop laughing, really, she was, but one glance at Harley’s face—his cheeks just slightly flushed, his jaw locked like a prison gate—and she lost it all over again.

Harley didn’t move. Didn’t look up. He just muttered, “Yes. You should.”

Parker raised an eyebrow. “Did I interrupt a team meeting or a mental breakdown?”

Stella waved a hand, wheezing, “Both.”

Harley groaned and buried his face in his hands again.

Parker, now even more concerned, took a cautious step into the room. “Wait… Harley, are you okay?”

“No.”

“Is she bullying you?”

“Yes.”

Stella slapped the table, howling. “He thinks he’s dying!”

“I never said—”

“You said your chest hurt and your stomach flipped and that your brain was broken!” Stella cried, nearly falling out of her chair.

Parker blinked, deadpan. “That sounds like a stroke, man. Want me to page someone?”

Harley stood up so fast his chair squealed.

“I have to go,” he said quickly—too quickly. “I have… charts. Brain ones. To stare at. Alone.”

“You’re not helping your case,” Stella teased.

“I have no case.”

Harley stormed out of the break room like a vampire escaping sunlight, slamming the door behind him.

Parker stood there.

“…Okay. That was weird, right? That was definitely weird?”

Stella wiped her eyes and smiled way too innocently. “Was it?”

“Yes! I walked in and it was like a fever dream sponsored by Crayola.”

She stood, dusting off her hands and heading toward the door.

“Don’t worry about it, Parker,” she said sweetly. “Some things just take time.”

“Take time to what?”

“Nothing!”

And she vanished, leaving Parker alone, blinking, with a drawing of a furious rabbit glaring up at him like he should understand what the hell just happened.

He sat down slowly.

“…I feel like I missed a memo. Or a season of a sitcom.”

Harley hadn’t meant to end up in Leith Pierre’s office.

Truly. He was just walking by. Definitely not spiraling. Definitely not mentally replaying every moment he’d spent near Parker Ferguson like a forensic analyst at a crime scene.

And yet… here he was. Standing stiffly in front of Leith’s desk, like he’d been called in for a performance review or an exorcism.

Leith looked up slowly, blinking like he’d just woken from a coma with a clipboard in his hand. His tie was crooked. His coffee mug said “Don’t Talk To Me Unless You’re Code Blue.”

“Harley,” he rasped. “Unless the building’s on fire or Eddie got stuck in the MRI again, make this fast.”

Harley shifted awkwardly. “I need a… second opinion.”

Leith blinked again. “...Is this about a patient?”

“No. It's about me.”

A pause.

Leith lowered the clipboard.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Harley cleared his throat. “I’m experiencing... symptoms. Physical ones.”

Leith sat up straighter, suddenly alarmed. “Is it neurological? Cardiac? Gastrointestinal?”

Harley winced. “Maybe cardiac. Sort of. I don’t know. It's just—every time this particular person is around, my heart rate spikes, I get nauseous, I can’t focus, I feel like I'm either going to pass out or scream.”

Leith blinked.

“Am I dying?” Harley added, very seriously.

Silence.

So much silence.

Leith leaned back slowly in his chair, rubbing his temples like he was praying for divine intervention.

“…Harley,” he said finally, “are you trying to tell me that you have a crush?”

Harley recoiled like he’d been slapped with a defibrillator paddle. “No! No, absolutely not.”

“Right. Just random chest pain, heart racing, disorientation, and the desire to scream when someone walks into a room. Definitely not romantic.”

Harley crossed his arms. “You don’t know that.”

Leith stared at him.

Just stared.

For an uncomfortably long time.

Like he was waiting for Harley to realize something on his own. When that clearly wasn’t happening, he leaned forward.

“Who is it?”

Harley hesitated.

Leith's eye twitched. “It’s Ferguson, isn’t it?”

“I—no comment.”

“Oh my God.”

Harley pointed at him. “Don’t say anything.”

“I don’t need to say anything!” Leith practically threw his pen across the desk. “Every time that man breathes in your vicinity, your ears turn red and you get meaner than usual.”

“That’s just how I talk.”

Leith stood up. “You once called him a ‘walking clown shoe in scrubs’ and then smiled at him like he was a rescue puppy. I was there.”

“I was being polite!”

“Harley, I have known you for ten years. You have never been polite.”

Harley was officially regretting everything.

Leith dragged a hand through his hair and sat back down. “Listen. I'm not your therapist. I'm barely your boss. But you, my dear emotionally stunted scalpel goblin, are not dying. You’re into him. And if you ask me again, I’m billing your insurance.”

Harley stood there, quietly stunned.

Leith sighed, grabbed his coffee, and muttered, “Why is it always me?”

It started in the intern lounge. A sacred place of vending machine food, questionable coffee, and hot gossip.

Poppy Nash was sprawled across the couch, still in her scrubs, socks mismatched and dignity long gone.

“Okay, but hear me out,” she said, gesturing wildly with a granola bar. “If Harley did have a heart, it would be shaped like a scalpel. And now? Now Parker Ferguson has it. Somehow. Accidentally.”

Kayla Hart rolled her eyes, but she was smirking. “There’s no proof. You can’t just say ‘gay panic’ every time Harley makes eye contact.”

“Okay but—what if this time it’s real gay panic?”

Haden Davidson kicked open the door, dramatically. “Shut up, everyone. Theo has spoken.”

The room went silent. Everyone turned.

Theo stood behind Haden, looking equal parts bored and sinister.

“You have intel?” Kayla asked, stunned.

Theo gave the tiniest shrug. “Walked into the break room. Harley was melting down to Stella. I think he used the phrase, and I quote, ‘my chest hurts when he’s around.’”

Poppy squealed like she’d just won a car.

“Oh my God. We were right.”

“No, I was right,” Kayla corrected smugly. “I said it after the vending machine incident. Remember? When Harley let Parker go in front of him in line? That was when I knew.”

“Wait,” Damian piped up, peeking in from the doorway. “Are we talking about Harley Sawyer? Our Harley Sawyer?”

Theo nodded. “He’s got it bad.”

Kane Doyle walked in next, sipping his fifth cup of vending machine coffee like it was champagne. “So, what I’m hearing is… Harley ‘emotionless-robot-surgeon’ Sawyer has a crush on Parker ‘golden retriever in scrubs’ Ferguson?”

“That’s exactly what you’re hearing,” Bobby Vargas confirmed as she slid onto the armrest of the couch with a smirk.

Poppy bounced in place. “This is better than that one time Eddie screamed at a resident for sneezing.”

Haden gasped. “We need a name for them.”

Kayla snapped her fingers. “Parkley?”

“No,” Damian said, grimacing. “Sounds like a parking garage.”

“Harker?”

“Too sharp.”

“Scalpup?” Kane offered.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

“…No,” Poppy whispered.

Theo leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Anyway. Harley went to Leith Pierre after. I only caught a bit, but I think it involved asking if he was dying.”

Dead. They were all dead.

Bobby flopped face-down into a pillow. “We are witnessing a romantic awakening in real time and I love it here.”

Kayla suddenly sat up. “Wait. Does Parker know?”

Everyone froze.

Poppy’s mouth fell open.

“…He’s probably still trying to figure out why Harley gets all weird and leaves the room like someone turned on a microwave.”

Theo hummed. “He’s clueless. Completely.”

Haden rubbed his hands together like an evil mastermind. “We need to speed this up.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Do we?”

“Yes,” Kayla and Poppy said in unison.

Damian grinned. “Operation Get Harley to Realize He’s in Love Before He Explodes?”

Kane raised his coffee. “I’m in.”

Theo sighed. “This is going to go horribly wrong.”

Poppy beamed. “Exactly.”

Chapter Text

The intern lounge was buzzing again.

Not with medical knowledge, of course. No one had opened a textbook in hours. But with the rich, steamy aroma of scandal.

Kayla was holding court today, sitting backwards on a chair like a middle school gym coach.

“I’m just saying,” she said, gesturing with a pencil like it was a wand of truth, “Harley Sawyer? Is The Gay Awakening™.”

A beat of silence.

Theo stopped typing on his laptop.

Poppy dropped her fruit cup.

Bobby muttered, “Oh no.”

Kayla blinked. “What?”

Theo didn’t even look up. “Kayla.”

“What??”

“You said that out loud.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You said that out loud in the middle of the hospital.”

“So?! He’s not here—”

“Hey guys,” said Parker cheerfully as he walked in holding a sandwich and a Gatorade. “What’s up?”

Time froze.

Parker’s smile flickered. “What?”

Kayla’s eyes went wide. “Oh no. Oh no no no.”

Poppy slowly turned away and pretended to be very, very interested in a stack of week-old patient charts. Damian dove behind a couch like it was a battlefield. Theo shut his laptop with funereal finality.

Parker squinted. “...What did I walk into?”

Haden blurted, “Nothing!”

Theo deadpanned, “A metaphorical landmine.”

Kayla looked like she was calculating how fast she could legally flee a hospital.

Parker set down his sandwich. “Okay, hang on. Who’s awakening what? I heard my name. There were gasps. I demand answers.”

Kayla was already cringing. “It’s just—it was a joke. Kind of. I didn’t mean—”

Then, like the ghost of chaos itself, the door opened again.

Harley.

Of course.

Holding a chart. Wearing his signature scowl. Looking right at the group.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Nobody breathed.

Absolutely nobody.

Theo glanced at Parker. Parker glanced at Harley. Harley glanced at Kayla.

Kayla squeaked.

Poppy muttered, “Oh God. We’re gonna die.”

Parker stood up. “Apparently someone said something about a gay awakening?”

Harley blinked.

Slowly. Dangerously.

“...What.”

Kayla looked like she was preparing her last will and testament. “I—it was just—Theo said you were acting weird, and we just sort of—speculated and—”

Harley turned to Theo.

Theo, who had faced down trauma surgeons and furious residents, simply held up both hands and said, “I said nothing today.”

Poppy whispered, “We're about to get murdered.”

Harley turned his gaze on Parker.

Parker, blinking innocently, shrugged. “Apparently I’m the gay awakening?”

More silence.

Then Harley just said, “I’m going to kill you all.”

Not loud. Not angry.

Calm.

Too calm.

Like a man whose soul had already left his body and was watching from above with popcorn.

Theo leaned over to Kane. “Five bucks says he hides a body in the MRI.”

Kane muttered, “I’d pay extra to see that.”

Harley spun on his heel and stormed off without another word.

The moment the door slammed, chaos resumed.

Poppy mutters, “We’re doomed.”

Damian declares, “He’s totally gonna murder Kayla first.”

Kayla whispers, “Oh my God do you think he heard the nickname???”

Theo replies, “He definitely did. And so did Ferguson.”

Parker stood frozen, eyes wide, face slowly turning red.

“…You guys have a nickname for him?”

“Um,” said Kayla, slowly backing away. “No?”

Bobby patted him on the back. “Welcome to the gossip mill, Parker. You're in it now.”

Parker didn’t mean to end up surrounded.

He just wanted to eat his sandwich in peace.

But no, the second he stepped into the lounge, every intern in the hospital seemed to materialize from thin air like caffeinated vultures. He blinked, mid-bite, as at least eleven of them stared at him with poorly disguised glee.

Kayla, Poppy, and Haden sat like smug goblins.

Simon, Chelsey, Penelope, and Brittany had claimed the couch like royalty.

Rachael and Ben were perched on the armrests.

Theo leaned against the doorway like a man who’d accepted his role as intern wrangler but regretted every second.

Parker swallowed. “Why do I feel like I just walked into an intervention?”

Chelsey grinned. “Because you did.”

Poppy held up a dry erase board labeled: ‘Operation Wake Parker the Hell Up’

Parker stared. “Okay, what—what is happening.”

“We,” said Kayla with flair, “are going to walk you through all the reasons you’re in love with Harley Sawyer and just too dumb to notice.”

Ben nodded solemnly. “We’ve gathered evidence.”

Parker nearly choked on his Gatorade. “I’m sorry—what?”

Simon pulled out a color-coded binder. “Let’s begin.”

“Exhibit A,” Rachael said, clicking a remote. A TV monitor across the room flickered on. Did they set up a presentation???

Footage of the vending machine hallway. Parker, laughing. Harley, deadpanning—but stepping aside to let him go first.

“Unheard of behavior,” Penelope said, sipping her tea like she was on Gossip Girl. “He’s never let anyone go first. Ever.”

Brittany nodded. “He threatened to slap me with a clipboard once.”

“Exhibit B,” Poppy declared, flipping to the next slide. A blurry phone video of Harley very obviously looking at Parker during a staff meeting while Parker was mid-rant about oat milk.

Parker blinked. “This is—when did you record this?”

“We’ve been collecting data for weeks,” said Haden, proudly. “The moment you defended him in front of Eddie, we launched a full investigation.”

“I didn’t ‘defend’ him!”

“You said, ‘Well maybe he’s just tired and doing his best,’” said Theo.

“To Eddie!” Poppy added, scandalized. “That’s like hugging a porcupine and living to tell the tale.”

“Exhibit C,” Simon continued, flipping to a photo of Harley blushing while Parker adjusted his stethoscope.

Parker just gawked. “He was blushing?! I thought he was just... red from surgery!”

“Oh my GOD,” Rachael groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

Chelsey looked physically pained. “Parker. Sweetie. You have the emotional awareness of a paper towel.”

“But he’s so mean to me!” Parker shouted, flailing. “He called me ‘sunshine in human form’ like it was an insult!”

Kayla shook her head. “That’s Harley language for ‘I think you’re beautiful and I hate that it makes my chest hurt.’”

Theo finally stepped forward, sighing. “Look. He’s different around you. He teases people, sure. But you? He talks to you like he’s hoping you’ll never leave the room.”

Parker sat down hard on the couch.

“Holy crap.”

Poppy grinned. “He likes you. He likes you.”

“And you like him,” Haden added. “You’ve been stupid over him since orientation.”

“I have not!”

Chelsey raised a finger. “You once said he had ‘surgeon hands made of ice and sin.’”

“I was joking—”

“You were blushing.”

Simon pulled out a pie chart titled ‘Parker’s Emotional Regression Timeline.’

Ben added, “You brought him soup when he had the flu and called it a ‘clinical wellness gesture.’”

“You two made eye contact for like twelve seconds the other day and then both walked into walls,” Brittany said flatly.

Parker buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god I’m a walking sitcom.”

Rachael leaned in. “We love you. We support you. But we also want you to do something about it.”

Penelope nodded. “Or we will.”

Everyone nodded.

Kayla grinned evilly. “We’re very close to sending him a fake Valentine signed ‘Guess who thinks you’re hot in scrubs?’”

Theo muttered, “She already printed them. They’re glittery.”

Parker groaned. “Please don’t.”

Kayla smirked. “Then confess, coward.”

Damian didn’t mean to say anything.

He really didn’t.

He’d only popped into the peds ward to drop off some files. That’s it. Nothing shady. Nothing suspicious.

Stella had been sitting on the floor with a kid in a dinosaur gown, stacking blocks and smiling like sunshine distilled into scrubs. The whole scene screamed “safe zone.”

So naturally, Damian’s mouth betrayed him immediately.

“…so yeah, the whole plan hinges on Parker not panicking, which is a long shot, but—”

He stopped. Blinked. Realized what had just come out of his face.

Stella looked up slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Plan?”

Damian stared at her.

The child next to her blinked up at him.

Stella tilted her head. “Parker plan?”

Damian cursed himself internally. Outwardly, he cleared his throat. “Um. Hypothetically.”

Stella patted the kid’s head, then stood, arms crossed, expression full Mom Mode™.

“Hypothetically,” she said sweetly, “is this a plan to finally get those two love-sick idiots to talk to each other?”

Damian panicked. “Wait, you knew?!”

“I’ve been waiting months for them to stop making heart eyes across operating tables,” she said, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve like a queen tired of the peasants’ nonsense. “I was starting to think Harley would die of repression before either of them noticed.”

“…So you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m thrilled,” she grinned. “But also skeptical. Because, sweetheart, those two are about as emotionally coordinated as a drunk giraffe on ice.”

Damian winced. “Okay, fair.”

Stella stepped a little closer, lowering her voice. “So what’s the plan?”

He glanced at the kid. She handed him a block like a bribe.

“…We’re trying to get Parker to confess.”

Stella blinked. “Parker? Not Harley?”

“Parker’s easier to break,” Damian said flatly. “Harley’s like a steel trap with an anxiety problem. Parker’s like a rubber band you stretch once and he screams.”

Stella nodded like this made perfect sense. “And how’s it going?”

“Well, he’s currently in denial so strong it’s like watching someone try to CPR a toaster.”

“…I see.”

She tapped her chin, thinking.

Then smiled.

“Oh no,” Damian said. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because,” she said, looking utterly delighted, “I’ve just decided to help.”

“Is that… good?”

“That depends,” she said cheerfully, already walking away. “Do you like watching grown men have panic attacks in hallways?”

Damian watched her go, already regretting everything.

Chapter Text

Stella found Harley exactly where she expected him: in the staff break room, pretending to look at paperwork while aggressively not drinking the coffee that had clearly gone cold.

She knocked on the doorframe. He didn’t look up.

“Go away unless you’re bringing me espresso or a new hospital,” he muttered.

Stella strolled in anyway. “Even better—I’m bringing you emotional confrontation.”

Harley’s head lifted so fast it was a miracle his neck didn’t snap.

“No,” he said immediately.

“You haven’t even heard what I—”

“No.”

“—want to talk abou—”

“Still no.”

Stella sat across from him and folded her hands primly. “Harley.”

“Stella.”

“You have a crush.”

“I’d rather have a tumor.”

She smiled. “We can arrange that if you’d like, Doctor Sawyer.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Is it that obvious?”

“No. I deduced it using my two brain cells and the fact that you blush whenever Parker says your name like it’s a prayer.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I’m not… blushing. I’m allergic. To stupidity. And loud noises. And smiling.”

“Uh huh. And how’s that working out for you now that Parker exists?”

Harley glared at the table like it had personally betrayed him.

Stella leaned forward. “Come on, Harley. You have feelings. Big ones. For a big dumb golden retriever man who brings donuts to meetings and told Dr. Nguyen that your ‘grumpy aura could be fixed with a hug and some therapy.’”

“That wasn’t funny,” Harley grumbled, but his ears were turning pink.

“You smiled when he said it.”

“It was a grimace. I was in pain.”

“I’ve seen you actually in pain. You’re quieter.”

Harley finally looked up, his expression caught between resigned and stab-me-with-a-scalpel-instead-please.

“It’s not—” he waved vaguely—“it’s not safe.”

Stella blinked. “What, love?”

“Feelings.” He spat the word like it was something vile. “They make you vulnerable. Weak. They open the door for things you can’t fix with a scalpel or sarcasm.”

“Or do you just mean people?” she asked gently.

Harley stiffened.

“I’m not going to play therapist,” Stella continued. “But you’re not made of ice, Harley. You feel things. You care. You just don’t let people see it.”

He looked away.

“…Parker sees it,” she said softly.

Harley’s jaw clenched.

Stella didn’t push. She stood, picked up her clipboard, and paused at the door.

“I’m not telling you to confess, or kiss him in the rain, or whatever it is your broken rom-com brain fears,” she said lightly. “But don’t lie to yourself just because you’re scared.”

Harley didn’t respond. He sat in silence as she left.

The coffee stayed cold. The paper in front of him remained unsigned.

And all he could think about was how Parker had smiled at him last night like Harley hadn’t already ripped down every “do not enter” sign he kept nailed to his chest.

Chapter Text

It started with Theo.

Theo, who hadn’t raised his voice once in six months but somehow had the whisper power of a street prophet. He told Damian, who told Poppy, who told Kayla, who screamed into a group chat that, within minutes, had twenty-eight people in it and a name that read:

“Surgical Shenanigans: H&P ❤️ Surveillance Squad”

Within the hour, everyone was involved.

The Intern War Room (a.k.a. Empty Exam Room 3B)

“Okay,” said Damian, pacing like a general. “We’ve confirmed it. Harley has a crush. Parker has a crush. Neither has a brain.”

“They’ve made eye contact in two different elevators,” added Maggie Owens, scrolling through an alarming number of blurry screenshots. “And Parker fixed Harley’s tie yesterday. There was a pause. It was loaded.”

“Was it flirty-loaded or trauma-loaded?” Poe Webb asked, because they were Poe and they needed vibes clarified.

“Both,” said Poppy. “This is a deeply cursed situationship.”

“We need a plan,” Quinn Navidson muttered, scribbling on a whiteboard like this was NASA and not a medical conspiracy.

“Do we fake a medical emergency?” Ollie Nelson asked.

“Harley would just diagnose it and call us idiots,” said Hailey Lloyd, who had already seen this movie before and starred in the blooper reel.

“I still say we just lock them in a supply closet,” said Ben Houston. “Classic. Timeless. Sexually charged.”

“Please remember this is a hospital,” Terrance Watson muttered, sipping what appeared to be an actual mug of stress.

Marcus Smith, passing by and hearing the chaos, poked his head in. “If this is about Harley Sawyer and Parker Ferguson, count me out. Unless I get popcorn.”

Meanwhile, in the Actual Hospital

Marie Paine caught Harley in the hallway and narrowed her eyes. “So you do have emotions.”

“I have brainwaves. That’s as far as I go,” Harley grumbled, dodging her judgment like a ninja.

“You lied to me,” she muttered, but with the smug satisfaction of a woman who’d always suspected the toaster could feel things.

And then there was Eddie.

“Why is everyone acting like this is a damn romcom?” Eddie snapped, cornering Theo by the nurse’s station.

Theo blinked at him. “It is a romcom. You're just in denial.”

“I’m in hell.”

“You could be the dry, brooding one with a secret soft side.”

Eddie gave him a long look. “You want Harley and Parker to kiss, or you want me to throw myself into traffic?”

Theo shrugged. “Both, ideally.”

Meanwhile, Leith Pierre, a broken man in search of caffeine, entered the chaos:

He sipped from a paper cup. Froze. Made a face like he’d just tasted wet cardboard and betrayal. Then he turned to Danielle Delight.

“Why is my entire hospital talking about two neurosurgeons like they’re on a season of Grey’s Anatomy: Idiot Edition?”

Danielle, completely unfazed, handed him a real coffee from her purse. “Because we’ve all been suffering and deserve this.”

He blinked at her.

“Also, it’s a good distraction from Marcus nearly setting the OR on fire again.”

“…Fair.”

By the end of the day, half the OR staff had placed bets, three patients had asked about “those two cute doctors on the poster board,” and someone—probably Bobby—had printed a shipping chart and stuck it to the vending machine.

Operation: Get Those Morons Together had officially launched.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a normal morning. Rounds. Charts. Parker humming Taylor Swift under his breath while Harley scowled at the coffee machine like it had killed his family.

But no.

Because Parker Ferguson, blight upon Harley’s stoic existence, said the thing.

And he said it out loud.

It was a dumb joke. One of those offhanded, harmless things that didn’t need to become anything. It started because Parker had leaned too close over Harley’s shoulder to look at the chart and muttered something stupid like:

“You smell like expensive soap and bad decisions.”

And then—oh God—he winked.

He. WINKED.

Harley froze.

Every molecule in the room froze.

The chart. The oxygen. Time.

Even the coffee machine made a death rattle.

Theo, standing near the door, slowly backed out of the room like a seasoned war correspondent.

“I need to go… anywhere else,” he whispered, already texting.

Eddie, who had just taken a sip of coffee, snorted so hard it shot out his nose and hit the supply cart. “WHAT THE HELL, PARKER?!” he barked, grabbing tissues and coughing like he’d inhaled pure scandal.

Parker’s soul briefly left his body.

“Wait, wait—NO—I didn’t—that wasn’t—”

Harley was red. Not just a flush. A full, crimson, blinking-like-his-brain-was-short-circuiting red.

Leith, poor Leith, was sitting at the table reviewing labs. Without a word, he lowered his head and bonked his forehead against the edge. Once. Twice. Thud. Thud.

“Why,” he muttered, “am I here. Why do I exist. Who cursed me.”

Parker flailed. “I—it was a joke—! A—ha ha, banter! Banter! You know, the kind that doesn’t result in permanent humiliation?!”

Harley still hadn’t said a word. He was just… staring.

Blank. Shell-shocked. Possibly rebooting.

The kind of look that said:
“My firewall has been breached. Emotional malware detected.”

Parker, now hovering somewhere between panic and digging own grave, tried to fix it.

“But I mean—it’s not wrong, you know, you do smell nice, and the bad decisions part was just—like—a metaphor—!”

Leith raised a hand from where his face was still buried in his elbow.

“Parker. I swear to God. Stop talking or I will inject you with actual horse tranquilizers.”

Eddie was wheezing, one hand on the counter. “Oh my God, I saw Harley Sawyer blush. I didn’t even think his face could make that color.”

Parker turned to Harley. “Say something! Literally anything! Hate speech! A medical pun! Your tax bracket!”

Harley blinked. And finally, finally, said:

“…You’re an idiot.”

Parker grinned, hopeful. “Yeah, but like… a charming one?”

Harley turned and walked out of the room.

Still red.

Ten seconds of silence.

Theo poked his head back in. “So… do we declare war or victory?”

“Both,” Eddie croaked, wiping his face. “God bless.”

Leith stood, grabbed his files, and walked out whispering, “I’m too tired. Too gay. Too French for this.”

The break room had transformed overnight.

Gone were the sterile white walls and humming machines.

Now, colorful sticky notes plastered the fridge, the coffee machine, even the fire extinguisher (because why not).

Each note was a timestamp guess — a bold prediction on when Harley Sawyer and Parker Ferguson would finally, inevitably, kiss.

The Bets

Kayla Hart:
“I’m saying 4 days, 3 hours, and 22 minutes. The smirk last Tuesday? Definite prelude.”

Haden Davidson:
“Two weeks tops. Harley’s going to snap any second, and Parker’s too relentless.”

Poppy Nash:
“I’m lowballing it at 10 days. The build-up is real but these two are slow cooks.”

Maggie Owens:
“I’m betting on the next hospital party. Too much booze, too many bad decisions.”

Quinn Navidson:
“No way it’s past a month. I’ve never seen Harley this… flustered.”

Danielle Delight:
“I’m just here for the entertainment. And the coffee. But mostly the entertainment.”

Eddie:
“Mark my words, this whole place is going to implode once they kiss. Or break each other’s hearts. Or both. I’m betting on chaos.”

Meanwhile, Parker was casually adding sticky notes himself, though he claimed it was for “research.”

“Three days,” Parker whispered to himself, sticking a note on the water cooler.

And Harley?

He didn’t say much, but he noticed the sticky notes.

He noticed the glances. The whispers.

He noticed Parker’s smirk when he walked in.

He noticed how his chest clenched every time the joke came up.

And he definitely noticed the sticky note on his clipboard that read,
“Harley Sawyer’s first kiss with Parker Ferguson: SOON™.”

The Patients?

Oh, the patients.

Little Timmy in room 214 told his mom he hoped the doctors kissed soon because it would “make the scary hospital less scary.”

Aunt Linda in 309 told the nurse, “I didn’t come here for surgery, I came for the drama.”

Leith Pierre, watching this all unfold, rubbed his temples, muttering:

“Can someone please run a code on my sanity?”

Chapter Text

It happened on a Tuesday. Of course it did. Tuesdays are statistically the worst, and this one had started with a power outage and ended with Parker Ferguson finally running out of self-control.

LOCATION: East Wing Hallway, Near Nurse’s Station 4B

The day had been long. They were both overworked, under-caffeinated, and had just finished saving a guy who somehow got a fork lodged in his skull.

It was classic Harley and Parker banter:

“You didn’t clamp the vessel fast enough.”
“I was holding a literal fork-shaped hole in the guy’s brain, Sawyer.”
“And still somehow, the fork was the more efficient one in the room.”
“Okay, say one more thing and I swear to God, I will—”

And then.

No warning.

No setup.

Parker. Kissed. Him.

One second he was ranting. The next? Lips. On lips. Months of tension, sarcasm, slow-burn sexual agony ignited in one chaotic moment.

And somewhere—somewhere near the nurse’s station—a mug dropped.

Shatter.
Silence.

Immediate Aftermath

Kayla Hart: screamed. Like, full-throated movie scream.
Haden Davidson: dropped his entire clipboard.
Theo: whispered “finally” like a gremlin monk achieving Nirvana.
Poppy Nash: slapped Ben’s arm so hard he dropped his phone.
Marcus Smith: literally clapped. Just one, slow, dramatic clap.

Eddie Ritterman was standing in the hallway mid-sip and just froze.
“…You have GOT to be kidding me.”
Then he turned and walked into a wall.

In the ICU Waiting Room

Someone's grandma looked up from her knitting.
“Oh good. It happened. Pay up, Linda.”

Leith Pierre, from across the hospital

Looked up. Felt a disturbance in the Force. Took a slow sip of bitter hospital coffee and muttered:

“…It’s done. The world is different now.”

Meanwhile, Back at the Scene of the Crime

Parker pulled back, blinking. “I—uh—was that okay?”

Harley, red-faced, breathless, looked him dead in the eye and muttered:

“…Took you long enough.”

THEN KISSED HIM BACK.

Interns Group Chat — “Surgical Shenanigans: H&P ❤️ Surveillance Squad”

Poppy: THEY KISSED THEY KISSED THEY KISSED
Damian: SHUT UP YOU’RE LYING
Quinn: I WAS THERE. THE MUG SHATTERED.
Ollie: THIS IS OUR SUPERBOWL
Hailey: Is it weird I’m crying
Penelope: I JUST WON MY BET, BABY $$$
Marie: about TIME
Leith: whoever screamed you owe me a new mug

Chapter Text

It had been twenty minutes since The Kiss™.
Only twenty. And yet it felt like the entire universe had shifted.

In the break room:

Ben was holding an actual whiteboard.
“Okay, new odds, people! If they make it to a second kiss by Friday, Penelope wins. But if they go on a date before the second kiss, it defaults to Chelsey—”

“Shut up, Ben!” Penelope yelled. “They literally just kissed! Let the romance breathe!”

Bobby Vargas raised her hands. “They kissed in a hallway, not on top of a patient’s file cabinet, so like… give it five minutes.”

Down the hall, in the lab…

Harley was hiding.

Well. Not hiding.
He was “examining bloodwork.” Alone. In the lab. With the lights dimmed. Staring at the same chart for five minutes straight. Not hiding. Definitely not.

His heart was still doing weird things. Not a medical emergency kind of weird. A Parker Ferguson just kissed me kind of weird.

The echo of it—Parker’s lips, Parker’s voice asking “was that okay?”—was playing on loop in Harley’s brain like a trauma playlist but in gay.

He buried his face in his hands. “Why. Why would he do that. What’s wrong with him.”

Behind him, a voice said, “You tell us.”

Harley turned around.

It was Stella. With Eddie. And Marie.
Which was just rude. All three of them? Together? That was harassment.

“Did you seriously think you could kiss the hospital golden boy and not spark a multi-department riot?” Marie asked, sipping her smoothie. “We have six floors and three departments involved now.”

Eddie was holding his coffee like it had wronged him. “I spit this on the floor for you.”

Harley blinked. “...Thank you?”

“I didn’t say you’re welcome.”

Meanwhile, in the elevator…

Parker was pacing in slow, tight circles. “I kissed him. I kissed him. Like an idiot. Like a giant, emotional, unstable idiot.”

Damian, who had accidentally gotten on at floor three, was watching him have the breakdown of a man who had just jumpstarted the apocalypse.

“…Honestly,” Damian said, pressing the ‘door open’ button, “you’ve done worse.”

“Wait what do you mean worse??”

“Don’t worry about it. Intern stuff.”

Back at the nurses’ station:

Kayla, Poppy, and Haden were gathering names.

“We’re setting up an anonymous suggestions box for their first date,” Haden explained.

“Oh! Oh! I say karaoke night!” said Maggie Owens.

“God no,” groaned Ollie. “Harley would die of shame before the second verse of Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

“I dunno,” murmured Simon. “I think Parker could get him to do it.”

Kayla grinned. “I love this hospital.”

Later That Day

Harley finally walked out of the lab, acting like he hadn’t just had a complete mental collapse.

Parker was coming from the opposite direction, visibly trying to play it cool while internally screaming.

They both stopped.

And for a second, the hallway was quiet.

Until someone—not identified, possibly a nurse, possibly God—whispered:

“Round two?”

Harley immediately turned on his heel and walked the other way.
Parker groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Why does this place have no chill whatsoever?”

In the break room, Leith Pierre poured coffee and muttered to no one,
“Next person who starts clapping when they make eye contact is getting reassigned to night shift with Theo.”

Theo looked up from his corner.
“…Joke’s on you. I already live here.”

Chapter Text

Stella Greybur was thrilled. Honestly, over the moon.

Harley. Almost dating. Willingly. With a real human. Who smiled and made dad jokes and somehow managed to get Harley to stop threatening to surgically remove people’s vocal cords.

It was a miracle.

But miracles came with history.
And Harley's history didn’t play nice.

She was sipping lukewarm tea in the lounge, a smile on her lips as she watched Harley and Parker across the hallway. Parker was talking. Harley was pretending he wasn’t smiling. They weren’t touching—not yet—but something in the air had changed.

Stella loved it.

She also hated it.

Because she remembered.

The last time Harley got close to someone like this... things didn’t end with hallway kisses and workplace betting pools. They ended in panic attacks, glass on the floor, and Harley disappearing for two weeks with no contact except a single, terrifying text:

“I’m fine. Don’t look for me.”

And when he came back? He was different.

That was the beginning of the Harley they all knew now. Sharper. Colder. Funniest person alive, if you liked your jokes barbed and dipped in battery acid.

Stella had been there then. And she wasn’t going to let that happen again. Not if she could help it.

Mission: Talk to Parker

This should’ve been easy. Parker wasn’t exactly a man of mystery. He was loud. Everywhere. Constantly surrounded by interns, nurses, or patients telling him about their dog’s surgery or offering him snacks. The man was a walking noise complaint.

But every time she tried to get him alone—

“Dr. Ferguson, we need you in OR 3.”
“Parker! Poppy clogged the vending machine again trying to get a Twix.”
“PARKER. KAYLA JUST DARED BEN TO EAT THE STERILE GAUZE.”

Like wrangling an emotional golden retriever on caffeine.

So Stella waited. Watched. Planned.

She kept her tone light when Harley asked, “Why are you staring at Parker like you’re gonna vivisect him?”

“I’m just watching him,” she said sweetly. “Assessing his suitability as your boyfriend.”

Harley blinked. "Don't."

“Too late,” she chirped.

In the Shadows (aka the Supply Closet)

Stella ducked in behind the metal shelf and texted Damian.

Stella: Parker alone yet?

Damian: Negative. Ollie just challenged him to arm wrestling in the break room.

Stella: WHAT.

Damian: He won. It was oddly romantic. Poppy’s writing fanfiction now.

Stella: …help me.

Damian: I’m doing my best, okay??

Later That Day…

She spotted her opening.

Parker was leaving the on-call room—alone, finally, mercifully—and Stella all but materialized behind him like a polite ghost.

“Hey,” she said, voice casual.

Parker jumped. “Jesus, Stella.”

“Got a second?”

He blinked at her. “Uh… sure? Is this about Harley? If he said the thing about spleens again, I swear—"

“No,” she said, more serious now. “Not like that.”

And Parker, bless his golden-retriever heart, immediately sobered. “Is he okay?”

Stella looked at him—really looked—and saw concern. Genuine. Raw. That was good. That was necessary.

“Come walk with me,” she said.

He looked ready to, but someone ran up and dragged him away.

Looks like more waiting.

Chapter Text

The hallway was quiet, for once. No interns yelling. No vending machine catastrophes. No juggling three different patient charts and a half-eaten granola bar.

Just Parker Ferguson, standing by the window, squinting down at the courtyard below with his “thinking face” on—which Stella had long ago classified as Confused Labrador.

She didn’t knock. She didn’t clear her throat. She just walked up beside him and said, loud and clear:

“If you’re going to break his heart, I’d like a heads-up so I can prepare the body bag.”

Parker choked on absolutely nothing. “I—what—Stella?!”

She gave him a sweet smile. “Hi.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You’re not wrong. He is very Christ-like. Martyr complex and everything.” She folded her arms, smile fading fast. “But we’re not here to talk theology. We’re here to talk Harley.”

Parker blinked at her. “Okay… What did he say to you?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t know I’m talking to you.”

“…This is a threat, isn’t it.”

“It’s a conversation.” She tilted her head. “That may or may not turn into a threat depending on your answers.”

Parker ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay, okay. Just—look, I like him. A lot. He kissed me back, didn’t he?”

Stella arched a brow. “So did the guy who hit on me at Applebee’s once. Still doesn’t mean he deserved my trust.”

There it was. That sharp edge.

She saw it hit him. Saw the slight shift in his posture—his voice dropped, his eyes narrowed just a little.

“I'm not gonna hurt him,” Parker said quietly.

“I hope not,” Stella replied, just as quiet. “Because Harley didn’t talk for a month after everything. You think he’s cold now?” She shook her head. “You have no idea what he’s like when he shuts off completely. And I’m not saying that to guilt you. I’m saying it because you seem to care. And if you care, you need to know what you’re dealing with.”

Parker didn’t speak.

Stella didn’t rush him.

She waited, arms crossed, gaze steady. Not angry. Just… honest. Which, from her, was about as gentle as anyone was going to get.

Finally, Parker looked at her. “What do you want from me?”

“Respect,” she said simply. “Patience. And maybe a little self-awareness. This thing between you and him? It’s not a joke to him. He might pretend it is. He might even make you think it is. But trust me—he’s in deep already.”

Parker let out a breath. “You’re serious.”

“I work with kids all day,” Stella said. “You think I don’t know when someone’s scared to get attached?”

He was quiet again.

Then—finally—he nodded. “Okay. You’ve made your point.”

“You gonna run away now?”

He looked her dead in the eye. “Hell no.”

For the first time since this started, Stella smiled again. “Good. Because if you do, Harley won’t say anything. He’ll just disappear.”

She turned on her heel and started to walk away.

Parker called after her, “Hey—Stella.”

She paused.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She looked back. “Then prove it.”

And she left him there—staring out that same window, heart hammering, resolve hardening.

Chapter Text

It was a Saturday night. Which, in hospital terms, meant chaos with a side of bodily fluids.

The ER was packed. Someone was yelling about mushrooms. Someone else was singing ABBA off-key. A third person tried to eat a thermometer.

All pretty standard for a weekend.

Parker was moving between rooms, chart in hand, when he heard the raised voice—sharp, slurred, and way too close to something fragile.

“C’mon, doc. Just let me see under the coat. You’re cute, you know that? I bet you don’t smile enough.”

Parker turned his head—didn’t even need to see the scene to know it was going to piss him off.

But when he did see it?

His stomach dropped.

Harley was standing near the bed, expression unreadable. Not his usual snark. Not even that patented “I hate you all” eye roll.

No. He was… still. Way too still. Frozen like a statue.

The patient—a guy in his late twenties, clearly hammered—was grabbing Harley’s wrist. Not hard. Not even aggressively. Just… inappropriately. Laughing. Slurring. Trying to pull Harley closer with that gross, familiar entitlement.

And Harley?

He wasn’t moving.

His face had gone completely blank. Like someone had flipped a switch and shut off everything behind his eyes.

“Harley?” Parker called, already stepping forward.

No reaction.

The man tugged again. “Aww, c’mon, don’t be like that. Bet you’re all serious, but I know a tease when I—”

Parker was there now.

“Hey.” His voice cracked like a whip. “Let him go.”

The guy blinked. “Whoa, okay, chill, I was just—”

Parker pried his fingers off Harley’s arm—firmly but not violently. Then he turned and stood between them, shielding Harley from view.

“Go back to your bed. You can keep your liver or not, your choice, but either way, do not touch the staff. Got it?”

The man grumbled and slouched away.

Parker turned around slowly.

Harley hadn’t moved. His arm still hovered in the air, like he didn’t even realize it had been let go. His eyes were glassy. Distant. Like he wasn’t here anymore.

“Harley?” Parker tried again, softer.

Nothing.

Parker gently took his elbow. “Hey. It’s just me. You’re okay. He’s gone.”

Slowly, so slowly, Harley blinked. His jaw clenched, and he stepped back. Not a flinch. A retreat.

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely.

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice was flat. Sharp. And completely unconvincing.

Parker didn’t push. Not now. Not with that look in his eyes. Not with the way he was standing like the floor might give out underneath him.

But this? This was it.

This was what Stella meant.

Not cold. Not angry. Just… gone.

Harley Sawyer, unplugged.

And Parker didn’t even know what to say.

So he said the only thing he could.

“…Do you want me to take your next rounds?”

Harley didn’t answer.

He just nodded once, quick and mechanical, and walked out of the room like a ghost wearing scrubs.

Parker sat alone in the break room, replaying it over and over.

He couldn’t stop seeing Harley’s face. Or, more accurately, the lack of it. That horrible blankness. That terrifying, haunted quiet.

He understood now. Not completely. But enough.

Enough to know he’d never joke about Harley being cold again.

Enough to know this wasn’t just trauma. This was survival.

Enough to know… he’d do anything to keep him from shutting down like that again.

Chapter Text

“Okay, but are we sure?” Brittany hissed, dramatically clutching her matcha like it was a rosary. “Because that sounds serious.”

“It is serious,” Theo said, utterly unbothered as he scrolled through his notes app, where he apparently kept detailed timestamps of everything that happened within twenty feet of Harley Sawyer.

Kayla leaned forward across the lunch table. “So he froze? Like... just stood there?”

“Yes,” Theo replied blandly. “Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Parker had to remove the patient. It was very awkward. Parker’s face did the thing. You know. The thing.”

“What thing?” Penelope asked, already typing into her phone.

“The ‘oh my god I care too much about this man and now I’m panicking and maybe also in love’ face,” Haden said knowingly.

Chelsey gasped. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Damian muttered, tossing a grape into the air and catching it. “Harley had a full shutdown and Parker Ferguson finally realized this isn’t just ‘grumpy doctor’ aesthetic. This is real pain with a capital P.”

“Pain,” Simon repeated. “And Pining.”

There was a moment of reverent silence as that sank in.

Then Bobby popped her gum. “So are we updating the board?”

“Updating it?” Kane scoffed. “I’m remodeling it.” He spun his iPad around, showing off a new betting bracket. “We’ve moved from ‘when will they kiss’ to ‘when will Harley let himself be loved.’”

Ben squinted. “That’s kind of dark.”

“So is Harley,” Kayla chimed in.

Theo, who had just taken a sip of coffee, nodded sagely. “You’d be amazed how fast a trauma response turns into campus-wide social currency.”

Rachael raised a hand. “So what are we doing about this?”

Everyone looked at her.

“…What?” she shrugged. “We can’t just watch. That man is a human stress fracture with nice hair.”

There was a beat. Then—

“I say we deploy Operation Soft-Focus,” Brittany declared.

“Oh god,” murmured Penelope.

“No, listen!” Brittany leaned in. “We slowly start pairing Parker and Harley together for calm, low-stress cases. No drunk patients. No loud floors. Just, like, old ladies with migraines and babies with ear infections.”

“Okay but how do we enforce that?” Damian asked, brow raised.

Theo didn’t even look up. “Already hacked the shift schedule template. Easy fix.”

Ben blinked. “Dude.”

“I live to serve.”

Meanwhile, across the hospital:

Harley sat in the break room, sipping a bottle of water like it owed him money. Parker sat beside him, saying nothing. Just… existing. Being there.

No teasing. No jokes.

Just presence.

Harley didn’t say thank you.

Parker didn’t ask him to.

Stella had just sat down with a packet of graham crackers and the world’s saddest cup of tea when the door to the break room slammed open.

Parker stood in the doorway, still in his scrubs, face flushed and eyes tight.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

Stella took one look at him and sighed. She put her crackers down. “About Harley?”

He walked in and closed the door behind him. “Yeah. That—earlier. That was bad.”

She didn’t respond, just waited, because Parker was still breathing like someone who had run from a disaster zone.

He crossed the room, running a hand through his curls. “I didn’t get it before. You said he shuts down, but I didn’t understand what that meant.”

Stella’s eyes stayed on her tea. “And now you do.”

“He looked—he looked gone, Stella.”

She nodded slowly.

“I said his name. I touched his arm. He didn’t even look at me. He just—he left. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“I have,” Stella said softly.

Parker blinked. “You… you have?”

She looked up at him, and for once, the usual warmth in her eyes was gone. Not anger. Just… a kind of tired truth.

“I’ve seen him worse, actually,” she said. “That wasn’t rock bottom, Parker. That was just a reminder it still exists.”

Parker sat down across from her like someone had knocked the wind out of him.

Stella took a breath. “You ever wonder why he hates loud noises? Why he doesn’t like people touching him unexpectedly? Why he never talks about his past unless it’s through a sarcastic joke or a scowl?”

He didn’t answer.

“I can’t tell you what happened to him,” she said. “That’s his story. And honestly? He might never tell it. But I will tell you this: Harley Sawyer doesn’t freeze because he’s scared of conflict. He freezes because, once upon a time, fighting back got him hurt.”

Parker swallowed hard. His hands were clasped on the table now.

“Back then, no one helped,” Stella continued. “No one stepped in. He learned to go quiet. Learned to disappear. And now, even when he’s safe, his brain hasn’t caught up to that yet.”

“…That guy touched him. The patient.”

She nodded. “Too casually. Too familiar. Drunk or not, that’s a trigger. It pulls him back.”

Parker leaned back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “So what am I supposed to do?”

Stella raised her eyebrows. “Do you care about him?”

“Yes.” Immediate. No hesitation. His voice cracked a little. “Yeah. I do.”

“Then don’t fix him.”

That caught him off guard.

“Wait—what?”

“You’re not a therapist. You’re not a miracle. You’re not his redemption arc.” Her gaze softened. “You’re just… you. And if you want to be there for him, then be there. Listen. Learn what to look for. Know when to stay and when to give him space.”

“And if I mess it up?”

“You will.” She smiled faintly. “But if you’re patient? He might just let you back in.”

Parker looked down at the table. He nodded once. Twice.

“…Thanks.”

Stella picked up her tea again. “Also, if you do end up breaking his heart, I will put glitter in every pair of socks you own.”

Parker gave her a look. “Stella—”

“Every pair, Parker.”

It started with a look.

Well. A series of looks.

Harley and Parker walked into the building together. Together. At 6:42 AM. Parker had two coffees. Harley was drinking one of them. And Parker smiled at him like Harley hadn’t spent the last two years roasting people into a fine powder.

Then there was lunch.

Not the fact that they had lunch. But the fact that Parker sat next to Harley on the same side of the table while they ate in the courtyard, shoulders barely brushing, and Harley didn’t flinch. Didn’t flinch.

By 3:00 PM, it had become a full-blown emergency in the intern group chat.

Group Chat: "Hot Goss n' Hospital Tea ☕️"
Kayla: so. THEY'RE DATING
Penelope: there is no way. no one dates harley sawyer. he’s emotionally allergic to affection.
Theo: I have data
Chelsey: of COURSE you do
Theo: exhibit A: Parker laughed at something Harley said. Harley SMILED.
Simon: WHAT
Kane: harley what
Rachael: i saw them near the elevator. parker touched his shoulder. HARLEY DID NOT DISINTEGRATE.
Ben: they left work together yesterday. I followed them for like four blocks.
Damian: dude.
Ben: for research.
Bobby: okay but like… is anyone gonna ask them?
Haden: and risk the wrath of Harley “Eye-Twitch” Sawyer?? i like living, thanks.
Brittany: who cares if they didn’t say it. i’m calling it. soft-launch confirmed.

Elsewhere…

Marie Paine stood beside Stella in the hallway, arms crossed, watching the two walk by together.

Marie raised an eyebrow. “So, are they?”

Stella smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“They’re not denying it.”

“They’re also not setting the break room on fire, so I’m counting this as a win.”

Marie hummed thoughtfully. “I always thought he was a secret softie.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Leith passed by mid-conversation, holding a mug that probably once had coffee in it and now just contained his eternal despair. “I don’t care if they’re dating. I care if they’re working the double shift on Friday.”

Eddie trailed behind him. “I care if I can start charging people for updates. This is better than TV.”

Later that Day…

Parker bumped Harley’s shoulder in the hallway, grinning. “You know they’re all talking about us.”

Harley didn’t look up from his tablet. “They always talk.”

“You could tell them to shut up.”

“I could,” Harley agreed dryly, tapping through a CT scan. “But then I’d have to talk to them. Pass.”

Parker laughed, leaning in slightly. “So… we’re not confirming anything?”

Harley finally looked up at him, eyes flickering with something warm. Dangerous. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“If you want them to know,” he said, voice low, “you’ll have to kiss me in front of them again.”

Parker blinked. “I—wait, again?”

Harley turned and walked away, smug as ever.

Parker stood there for a beat before muttering, “This man is going to be the death of me.”

Chapter Text

Stage 1: Surveillance Team Activate

In a supply closet that hadn’t been organized since the dawn of time, four interns huddled like it was a secret war council.

Theo had a tiny notebook, Chelsey was fiddling with a GoPro (“For optimal hallway coverage”), Quinn was chewing gum and looking like they’d seen too much, and Haden had binoculars.

“Why do you even have those?” Chelsey asked.

Haden shrugged. “You don’t not bring binoculars when love is on the line.”

Theo held up a hand. “Our targets are slippery. Harley has the observational skills of a sniper and Parker’s built like a golden retriever on espresso. We’ll need stealth, precision, and at least one emergency alibi.”

Quinn pulled out a pair of scrubs and a clipboard. “I’ve got disguises.”

“…Do they work?” Chelsey asked.

“They worked for Halloween.”

Stage 2: Strategic Romantic Sabotage

Elsewhere, Poppy, Kayla, Damian, and Rachael were on a mission of a very different kind.

Kayla slipped a handwritten sticky note into Parker’s locker.
“Ask him to lunch. Bonus if you don’t bring up brain surgery even once.”

Rachael swapped out Harley’s usual black coffee for a custom-made cup with “You Deserve Good Things” scrawled on the side in loopy Sharpie. No one ever found out how she got it in there.

Damian left a bouquet of wildflowers labeled “totally anonymous gift, definitely not from interns who ship you.”

Poppy tucked a tiny, printed-out quote into Parker’s scrubs pocket:
“If he makes you smile and doesn’t flinch when you’re loud, maybe he’s worth the leap.”

Stage 3: Chaos Coordination (aka Everyone Else Minding Everyone Else’s Business)

Bobby, Ben, Penelope, Simon, Brittany, Maggie, Poe, Terrance, Hailey, and Ollie were doing absolutely nothing helpful. Unless you count placing bets and handing out popcorn helpful.

In the intern breakroom:

“Fifty bucks says Harley’s the one who kisses him next,” said Penelope, legs on the table like she owned the place.

“No way. Parker’s incapable of not blurting his feelings out like a puppy in a thunderstorm,” countered Simon.

Ben was drawing a diagram. “Okay, but hear me out—what if they both try at the same time and knock heads? Double KO.”

Hailey held up her phone. “Live footage from Quinn. They’re in the east hallway right now.”

Everyone leaned in.

Meanwhile, in the East Hallway...

Harley and Parker walked side-by-side. Too close. Definitely-too-close. Parker’s hand brushed Harley’s once, then again—then lingered.

In a vent above the ceiling, Theo adjusted his camera lens like a sniper preparing for the final shot. “Target within range. Waiting on emotional vulnerability.”

Chelsey, listening through a hacked baby monitor, whispered, “Do you hear that tension?”

Quinn chimed in on the walkie. “Rachael’s right. Parker smiled and looked at Harley’s lips. I repeat, lip look confirmed.”

Back in the breakroom

Leith walked in, blinked at the silent crowd, the livestream, the bingo board labeled “HARLEY + PARKER = HEARTS?”, and walked right back out again.

“I am too old for this,” he muttered.

Marie passed him with a cup of tea. “You do realize this is the most fun they’ve had all year?”

“They’re doctors, Marie.”

“They’re interns, Leith.”

He groaned.

Later That Day...

Parker found another note in his locker, this one in gold gel pen:
“Confession Tip: Don’t wait for the ‘perfect’ moment. Just pick a quiet one. Harley doesn’t like big scenes.”

He stared at it for a moment.

Then smiled.

t took four days.

Four agonizing, hair-pulling, overly romanticized days.

By day two, Brittany had built a countdown clock.
By day three, Penelope had rewritten the lyrics to “I Will Always Love You” but made it gay and surgical.
By day four? Everyone was ready to storm the hospital PA system and start playing love songs until Parker cracked.

But he finally found it.

A lull in the trauma unit. Most of the floor was dark, silent, sterile except for the faint buzz of the vending machine down the hall. Parker had just finished scrubbing out. Harley was standing by the lockers, rubbing the back of his neck like the tension lived there rent-free.

And Parker—nervous, heart in his throat, muttering a half-prayer to the gods of timing—walked over.

“Hey.”

Harley looked up. Tired. Soft. Guarded.

“You okay?” Harley asked.

Parker swallowed. “Yeah. I just… I keep thinking about something you said a while ago.”

Harley raised an eyebrow. “God. Was it something mean?”

Parker laughed. “Honestly, probably. But no, it’s just—I think about you a lot. Not just when you're being impossible. Which is most of the time, by the way.”

Harley’s lips twitched. The hint of a smile.

Parker continued, quieter now. “But also when you’re helping a patient talk through their fear. When you’re so focused in surgery it’s like the world doesn’t exist. When you do that dumb smirk thing and pretend like you’re not actually a good person under all that sarcasm.”

A beat.

Harley stared. Blinking. Processing.

Parker shrugged. “I guess what I’m saying is… I like you. And I’m okay with everyone else knowing. I just—I wanted you to know first.”

Silence.

Then Harley said, quietly, without looking away:

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Parker asked, hopeful and terrified.

Harley nodded. “Okay, I like you too. Still trying to figure out why. You’re loud. You smile too much. You talk to Theo voluntarily.”

Parker grinned.

Harley added, almost a whisper, “But you make things feel… safe.”

Parker stepped forward, just enough to close the gap. “So, should I kiss you, or—?”

“God, please do.”

And they did.

Cut to: Intern Break Room

Chelsey slams into the room like she just outran security. “CODE BLUE, CODE BLUE—THEY’RE FINALLY DOING IT—LOCKER ROOM—CAMERA 3—ENGAGE.”

Penelope nearly fell off the couch trying to grab her phone.

“Wait, Chelsey, back it up, back it up! I missed the part where he says the thing!”

Kayla screamed into a pillow.

Ben slid a ten-dollar bill across the table to Poe. “I was off by three days.”

Simon: “THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS I CAN’T BREATHE—”

Leith walked by just then, holding his mug of coffee.

He stopped. Glanced at the screen.

“…About damn time,” he muttered, and kept walking.

Chapter Text

It started with a banner.

A big, glittery, barely-legible banner Chelsey and Penelope made out of leftover surgical tape, gauze, and glitter glue that read:

“WE SHIP IT 🚨💘🚑”

And once that thing was taped (poorly) to the breakroom door, it was over. There was no stopping it. This wasn’t just a celebration. This was a hospital-wide cultural event.

The Patients Were In.

Room 309 — Aunt Linda, a retired poker champion with Opinions™ — cackled as she handed her sister a crisp $30.

“Don’t ever bet against the gays, Doreen.”

Room 214 — Little Timmy, who once asked Parker if he and “Mr. Scaryface” were dating, simply crossed his arms and nodded solemnly like the war was finally over.

Room 115 — Frank, recovering from a minor knee surgery, requested Careless Whisper be played over the intercom. Twice.

The Interns Were Unhinged.

Quinn DJ’ed from a rolling vitals cart they converted into a mobile speaker system.

Theo had a whiteboard listing out all the iconic romantic moments so far, complete with star ratings. (“Locker Room Confession: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ — Absolute cinematic masterpiece.”)

Poppy baked cookies shaped like tiny brains and hearts. Damian added tiny rainbow flags to each one.

Haden and Simon choreographed a flash mob. They forced Poe to join. Poe did not look thrilled, but committed anyway.

Maggie was making paper crowns that said “Team Harley” and “Team Parker” — only to be told that was not the point and instead started handing out “Team Love” stickers.

The Doctors Were… Trying Their Best.

Marie Paine popped in, raised her cup of tea in salute, and said, “To emotional growth and tolerable coworkers.”

Eddie walked through the room like a confused cat in a fireworks factory. “Why is everyone screaming? Who is DJ-ing? Is that my clipboard?”

Danielle Delight was vibing, honestly. She put on sparkly eyeshadow mid-shift just for the event.

Marcus Smith somehow brought real balloons. No one knows where from. No one questioned it.

Leith stood in the doorway, arms crossed, sipping coffee with the expression of a man who had truly lost control of his staff.

“You know this is wildly inappropriate,” he muttered to Stella.

Stella sipped her juice box and said, “And yet you’re not stopping it.”

He scowled and took another sip.

And the Stars of the Show?

Harley and Parker walked in and froze.

The music. The lights. The “Congrats On Your Gay Love!” card taped to a pizza box.

Parker blinked. “Did… we die?”

Harley turned slowly to Stella. “What. Is. Happening.”

Stella smiled sweetly and offered him a party hat. “The interns happened.”

A patient in a wheelchair zoomed past them screaming, “TRUE LOVE IS REAL!”

Parker was laughing so hard he had to hold onto Harley for support.

Harley, still red-faced and stiff, finally cracked a small, rare, impossible smile.

And the room cheered like someone hit the game-winning buzzer.

Falling asleep in the lunch room was nothing new. It was practically a rite of passage—like dropping your pager in the toilet or hallucinating from too much caffeine.

Harley had done it plenty of times.

Usually curled in a corner like a sour little gargoyle, or with his head slumped on a tray that once held a very questionable chicken sandwich. But this time?

He didn’t mean to fall asleep on Parker’s shoulder.

It started innocently enough. A long surgery. A longer meeting. A caffeine crash that hit so hard it nearly knocked him into another dimension.

Parker was sitting next to him, scrolling through his phone, humming something soft under his breath that sounded vaguely like Taylor Swift but with worse pitch.

Harley didn’t even realize he’d leaned over. Didn’t notice his head tilt. Didn’t feel the shift from “upright and grumpy” to “quiet and unconscious” until Parker shifted slightly and—

“Is he—? Oh. Oh no.”

There it was.

Harley. Head on his shoulder. Breathing steady. Arms crossed. Brow still faintly furrowed even in sleep, because of course it was. His hair was a mess. There was a slight frown on his lips, like even his dreams were skeptical of human interaction.

Parker blinked. Stared at the ceiling.

Okay. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Do not ruin this extremely rare, extremely precious moment.

He very slowly put his phone down.

Across the room, Chelsey—of course Chelsey—peeked in, immediately gasped, and vanished again like a raccoon who just found gold.

Thirty seconds later, the breakroom group chat exploded:

Chelsey: CODE NAP. REPEAT. CODE NAP.
Theo: Confirmed. Shoulder contact. Full head weight.
Poppy: 😭😭😭 I LOVE LOVE
Quinn: someone get a camera I’m in surgery rn
Simon: bet ten bucks he wakes up and pretends he doesn’t remember
Rachael: twenty says he wakes up and panics

Back in the lunch room, Parker sat still. A statue of awkward gay delight. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He didn’t even want to blink too loudly. He was scared his collarbone was going to twitch and wake the dragon.

But honestly?

Harley looked… calm. Peaceful, even. And that did something to Parker’s heart he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just sweet. It was vulnerable. Raw. Human.

It was a sign.

Ten minutes later, Harley stirred. Blinked. Sat up like he was rebooting.

“...Did I just—?”

“Yep,” Parker said, casual, playing it cool, heart rate only mildly unhinged.

Harley stared at him. Then immediately looked away, ears red.

“I was tired,” he mumbled.

“I got that, yeah,” Parker said, grinning. “You drooled a little.”

“I what—?!”

Parker snorted. “Kidding. But seriously… you okay?”

Harley was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, “…I guess I trust you more than I thought.”

Parker’s grin fell into something softer. Realer.

“…Good,” he said.

And if they didn’t leave the breakroom for another fifteen minutes, just sitting there in silence?

Well, the hospital grapevine would make sure everyone knew by the hour.

In the hallowed halls of Hospital Gossip, news moved fast. Faster than lab results. Faster than someone sprinting to the bathroom after bad sushi. Faster, even, than Chelsey Goodman on a mission.

But this news?

This news hit like a caffeine IV straight to the vein.

The breakroom was packed. Interns filled every inch of it like they were cramming for finals in a supply closet.

Kane leaned forward, eyes wide. “You’re telling me… he actually fell asleep on Parker?”

“I swear on my stethoscope,” Chelsey declared, hand raised dramatically. “I saw it with my own eyes. His head? Boom. Right on Parker’s shoulder. Like a sleepy little demon prince.”

Theo, beside her, nodded solemnly. “Confirmed. I caught a photo. It's blurry, but the vibes are crystal clear.”

“You got a photo?” Barbra “Bobby” Vargas gasped.

Simon reached over, already pulling it up on his phone. “Group A gets the scoop. Y’all were on rounds, suck it up.”

Ben Houston squinted at the image. “Damn. That’s some trust fall level behavior right there.”

“Right?” Poppy squealed. “Do you know what this means?! He let himself rest on another human being. Harley Sawyer! Our resident sarcasm demon!”

“Yeah,” Rachael said, biting into a granola bar. “Either he’s dying or he’s in love.”

Meanwhile, Penelope was furiously scribbling notes on a whiteboard labeled:

“EVIDENCE THAT HARLEY IS IN LOVE WITH PARKER:”

• Fell asleep on him ✅

• Did not immediately combust when he woke up ✅

• Admitted ‘I guess I trust you’ ❗️

• Did not insult Parker upon waking ❗️❗️

• Facial redness observed ❗️❗️❗️

“I’m adding stickers later,” she mumbled, tapping her marker like a detective solving a high-profile case.

Damian was practically vibrating. “We need to throw another party. A nap party. We’ll serve coffee and make everyone wear pajamas.”

“You just want to wear pajamas to work again,” Maggie pointed out.

“Is that a crime?”

By now, even the usually-stealthy Poe Webb had popped in just to lean against the wall and smirk.

“Harley’s gonna lose it when he finds out everyone knows,” he said.

“Oh, he definitely knows,” Chelsey said, practically bouncing. “I made direct eye contact with him in the hallway and he visibly short-circuited. It was adorable.”

Leith passed by the doorway at one point, took one glance inside, muttered “Nope,” and kept walking.

Danielle Delight followed a second later, popped her head in, and went, “Update me via group chat, I love drama,” before disappearing again.

The final verdict?

Everyone agreed unanimously: this was a watershed moment in Parker/Harley history.

Napgate 2025.

Marked forever as the moment Harley Sawyer’s walls cracked—not with a crash, but with the soft thump of a head on a shoulder.

Chapter Text

Parker had done his hair.

Which, okay, was rare. Borderline historic. But hey—first impressions mattered, and technically, he was supposed to be the one welcoming Dr. Christopher Evans to the team. A new transfer. Fired from his last hospital for “complicated” reasons. Which, in Parker’s book, meant “probably did something wild but survived to joke about it.” His kind of people.

He was even feeling good about it.

Until Stella saw the man walk through the doors.

It was like someone dropped the temperature in the hallway. One second she was joking with Poe and Marcus, the next? She’d gone full statue mode.

Her usual warm expression drained right off her face.

Eyes locked on Evans. Unblinking. Calculating. Familiar in a way that made her fingers twitch like she was preparing to protect something—or someone.

“...Stella?” Parker said, furrowing his brow.

She didn’t answer. Not for a beat. Then she turned, grabbed Parker’s wrist, and leaned in with a voice like steel wrapped in velvet.

“Go find Leith and Eddie. Now.”

Parker blinked. “Wait, what? Why?”

“Because,” she said, eyes not leaving Evans, “we have a problem.”

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t even a suggestion.

It was Stella Greybur Emergency Voice™, do-not-pass-go, do-not-question-her Judgment Edition.

Parker took off.

He found Leith elbow-deep in paperwork and on his third cup of lukewarm tragedy-coffee.

“Hey, uh, Leith?”

Leith didn’t even look up. “Unless the building’s on fire or Harley kissed you in front of HR, I don’t wanna hear it—”

“Stella told me to get you. Said we’ve got a problem. It’s about the new guy.”

Now that got Leith’s attention.

Leith blinked, stood up, and muttered something under his breath that may or may not have been, “Not again.”

Parker pointed down the hallway. “She also wants Eddie.”

“Eddie?” Leith groaned. “Why does she want Eddie?”

“I dunno. Vibes?”

They found Eddie lurking near the break room, glaring at a vending machine like it had insulted his mother.

He took one look at Parker and Leith sprinting down the hall, sighed like his soul was being slowly crushed, and followed.

By the time the three of them made it back to Stella, she was still standing exactly where she had been—arms crossed, jaw tight, watching Evans make small talk with Penelope and Ben.

She didn't even look at them as she spoke.

“His name isn’t Christopher Evans. Not really. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but if we let him stay, Harley is going to fall apart.”

The silence that followed could’ve suffocated a lung.

Parker’s heart dropped to his shoes.

“What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

Stella finally looked at him. Her eyes weren’t soft anymore.

“I mean,” she said, “I don’t know everything about Harley’s past. But I know enough to recognize one of his monsters when I see him.”

Stella pulled Parker aside the next morning, her voice low and dead serious.

“I need you on distraction duty.”

Parker blinked, sipping his questionable hallway coffee. “Distraction from what?”

“From Evans.”

“Stella, I don’t even know what he did yet.”

She leveled him with a look that could melt steel. “And you won’t, not from me. But I need you to trust me on this, okay? Just… keep Harley away from him.”

Parker, despite having forty-seven questions, gave a sharp little nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

And so began the Great Sawyer Surveillance Mission.

Parker started casually hovering. Every time Harley left a room, Parker was already there. Every time Evans showed up on the same floor, Parker accidentally dragged Harley into a conversation with someone else.

It started subtle.

“Hey, let’s grab lunch.”

Then it became more… creative.

“Hey, Dr. Nelson wants you to consult on a case. Super urgent.”
“Which case?”
“Uh… the… spleen one.”
“We don’t do spleens.”
“Did I say spleen? I meant brain spleen. Very rare.”

Harley, being Harley, noticed something was off by Day 2.

“Are you tailing me?”

“What? No!” Parker grinned. Too wide. Too suspicious. “I’m just enjoying your grumpy presence. So warm. So fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy?”

“Like a cactus.”

Day 3. Harley was done.

He cornered Parker by the elevator, arms folded.

“What did you do?”

Parker blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re clearly hiding something. You keep dragging me to different wings, interrupting rounds, and you nearly shoved me into the janitor’s closet yesterday to ‘check on the mop.’ Which wasn’t even in there, by the way.”

Parker tried to smile. “...Maybe I just like spending time with you?”

Harley’s eyes narrowed. “You're hiding something. Is it you? Did you screw something up and you're trying to keep me from finding out?”

Parker's smile faltered.

“I didn’t—no, I’m not hiding me. It’s not about me.”

“Then what is it about?”

Parker paused.

He wanted to tell him. He did. But Stella’s warning rang in his ears—don’t go poking Harley’s trauma unless you’re ready for it to bite back.

So instead, he shrugged.

“Just… trust me. Please?”

Harley stared at him for a long beat.

And then, with an exhausted sigh, he muttered, “Fine. But if this is some weird cover-up for something dumb you did, I’m going to sew your scrub pockets shut.”

Meanwhile, Evans?

He was smiling. Charming. Integrating. Like he wasn’t a nuclear bomb waiting to go off.

Stella watched him from across the room, her jaw tight.

She didn’t know how long she had before Harley figured it out. But the countdown had started.

And if Parker couldn’t keep him away?

She just hoped to hell she’d be fast enough to catch him before he shattered.