Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The last place Conrad Fisher wanted to be was at The Tipsy Turtle. In fact, he wouldn’t even be here if his best friend, Agnes, hadn’t forced him out of his apartment. He knew she meant well, but that didn’t change the fact that he would’ve rather been wallowing in his own little pity party at home than sitting in a semi-crowded bar on a Thursday night, nursing a beer he didn’t even really want.

“Conrad.” Agnes broke through his thoughts, his head turning toward her, worry etched on her face. “This isn’t healthy.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled, taking a swig of his already lukewarm beer.

Agnes studied him. His sunken eyes pooled with disinterest, and the sight only deepened her worry. Conrad was teetering on the edge of a major depression, and she wasn’t sure how to help him. He was already seeing a therapist, and Agnes could only hope he was actually talking about everything.

“It’s been a year,” Agnes said softly—a tone she rarely used.

Conrad sighed, nodding.

It had been a little over a year since he confessed his love for his brother’s girlfriend, Belly Conklin. A little over a year since Belly married his brother, Jeremiah. He hadn’t even gone to the wedding—he hadn’t wanted to—but at Belly’s request (well, demand), he’d left.

He hadn’t spoken to Belly since that night. His relationship with Jeremiah was strained, though slowly mending. It would never be what it once was, but something was better than nothing.

The kindest thing Jeremiah ever did for his brother was hardly mentioning Belly—and he didn’t. Not really. Maybe in passing, but never a full conversation. Conrad hadn’t heard about her, or from her, in over a year. Steven and Laurel skirted around her too—Laurel more so than Steven. Conrad wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or not. Sometimes he wondered if it would hurt less if he constantly heard about her life.

The first month had been the worst. A constant gnawing ache in his chest, the refusal to do more than the bare minimum, barely surviving that. Now, a year later, the pain of losing the love of his life had dulled—but it had left him hollow. No matter how hard Agnes tried, Conrad couldn’t look at another woman and feel anything. He wasn’t sure he ever would again. Belly had shattered him in more ways than he could admit, and he had no idea how to rebuild himself. Or if he even wanted to.

“Okay, why don’t we start easy,” Agnes said, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Start easy for what?” he asked, brow furrowing.

“Exposure therapy. I want you to talk to a girl tonight!” Agnes said brightly, a hopeful smile on her face.

Conrad groaned. They’d tried this “exposure therapy” four times already, and each one had been a disaster. One girl had a boyfriend, one might’ve been in a cult, and all four had been... weird. And they had all been Agnes’ picks.

“Are you kidding? Because every other time went so well,” Conrad muttered. It wasn’t just awkward and strange—it was like he’d spent so many years fixated on Belly that he no longer knew how to talk to women at all.

“Oh, come on! One more, and I won’t ask you again for at least a month.” Agnes clasped her hands together in mock pleading.

Conrad arched a brow. Agnes usually nagged him at least once a week, sometimes outright, sometimes with a sly comment about a “cute girl over there.” A month free of her matchmaking schemes sounded like heaven. And really, what was another bad conversation and fourteen wasted dollars on a cocktail?

He let out an overly dramatic sigh before chugging the rest of his beer. Agnes leaned back in triumph.

“Fine.”

Agnes squealed.

“But this is the last one for a month,” Conrad warned. “Not even a comment about someone being cute. Deal?”

Agnes stuck out her hand, and they shook on it.

Conrad leaned back, watching as Agnes scanned the room. The bar wasn’t too crowded, but the Tipsy Turtle always seemed to draw a good, young crowd—lots of Stanford people like them.

Then he saw it: the way Agnes’ eyes locked onto a girl at the bar, sitting alone. Her hair was in messy waves, tied half up. She wore jeans and a simple white top with ruffled sleeves.

“Her. She’s perfect.” Agnes beamed, full of confidence—as if she hadn’t said the same thing every other time.

“Yeah,” Conrad mumbled. “Fine.”

Agnes gave him an encouraging shove, and he stumbled forward, shooting her a glare. She just laughed, raising her drink like a toast.

“Enjoy the show,” he mouthed. She smirked, and for the first time in a long time, he felt the ghost of a smile tug at his lips.

Conrad slid onto the stool beside the girl. She turned, green eyes catching his, and offered a small smile before looking back down at her drink.

He released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Her eyes were bright and warm, despite the tired look on her face. He hadn’t expected that.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“Guinness,” Conrad said.

The girl glanced back at him. “Guinness? Good choice.” Her voice was soft, lilting—and unmistakably British. He hadn’t expected that either. And he definitely hadn’t expected her to speak first.

“Do you want one?” he asked.

“A Guinness? No.” She paused, then teased, “But I’ll take a Newcastle if you’re buying.”

Conrad found himself smiling. “Deal.”

The bartender slid his Guinness across the bar, then poured the Newcastle. Conrad wordlessly handed it to her, and she turned to face him fully now, her knees almost brushing his as she smiled.

“Thanks.” She took a sip, then groaned dramatically. “Oh, thank God.”

“It’s that good?” Conrad asked, his lips twitching.

“This is the only place in Palo Alto that serves Newcastle on tap,” she said, pointing toward the draft handles. “And this happens to be the best beer in all of England.”

Before he could respond, she set her pint down quickly. “Where are my manners?” She lifted her glass toward him. “Cheers.”

He clinked his pint against hers, both of them taking a sip.

“So,” Conrad began, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Is home England then?”

She smirked. “The accent wasn’t a dead giveaway?”

Conrad nearly laughed. It wasn’t that what she said was funny—it was her. The accent, the light in her eyes, the way she laughed with her whole body.

“I didn’t want to assume. For all I knew, you could’ve been Australian.”

She burst out laughing—really laughing—her shoulders shaking, her body folding forward then back.

“Good man,” she said when she caught her breath, the words sounding impossibly British.

“That happens a lot then?”

“Enough. I’ve even started practicing my Steve Irwin impression to really sell it.”

“And how’s that going?” he asked.

“Terribly. Horrid.”

“Horrid?” he teased.

“Bad. Or whatever you Americans say,” she shot back, smirking.

“You could say crappy. Or lame. We keep it simple.”

She laughed again, shaking her head.

Conrad took another sip, heart thudding. Now or never. “I’m Conrad.”

She lifted her glass, clinking his. “Poppy.”

He chuckled before he could stop himself. Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was just her—magnetic, easy, fun in a way he hadn’t felt in so long.

“Such a British name.”

“Yes, I might as well be the bloody Queen of England.” She exaggerated her accent, and this time Conrad really laughed—a full, unrestrained laugh he hadn’t felt in over a year.

Then her pocket buzzed. She glanced at the pager, sighed, and shoved it back.

“For God’s sake.” She looked at him apologetically. “I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

“Oh—sure—yeah.” He scrambled to stand as she grabbed her bag and coat.

She paused, eyes lingering on his face. “Thank you for the drink, Conrad. This was lovely.”

His throat was too tight to reply, so he just nodded. She gave him one last smile before hurrying out of the bar.

Conrad stood frozen, staring at the door. An hour ago, he’d wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed. Now, he found himself wishing he could stay here, just in case she came back.

A tap on his shoulder pulled him out of it. Agnes.

“What happened?” she asked, following his gaze to the door.

“I don’t know.”

Agnes studied his face, the dumbstruck expression she’d never seen before. Her eyes widened. “Oh my God. You liked her.”

Conrad said nothing.

“Please, please tell me you got her number.”

His face fell. “Fuck.” He groaned, collapsing into his seat, head tipping back in frustration.

Agnes shook her head, dropping into the seat Poppy had just vacated. “Idiot.” She stole his beer, sipping it as Conrad sat with his head in his hands, finding himself agreeing with Agnes. He was an idiot. 

Chapter Text

Penelope “Poppy” Ashford was all but cursing into her pager as she ran from the bar to Stanford Children’s Hospital, her hand simultaneously tying her hair into a loose ponytail as she sprinted.

“Bloody brilliant,” she muttered under her breath, annoyed at the fact that she had finally met a boy—a cute boy at that—and it was ruined by a page from her attending.

She took the stairs two at a time until she made it to the locker room, stripping out of her jeans and pulling on her pale blue scrubs, throwing on her white coat before jogging toward the nurses’ station.

“Ashford,” she heard, her head whipping around to see her attending, Dr. Alexa McComb, head of pediatric oncology. “Good that you’re here. Your kid has neutropenic fever.”

Poppy shook her head, grabbed the chart, and ran the opposite way until she reached one of her favorite kids—seven-year-old Luke, with acute lymphoblastic leukemia.

When she entered the room, Luke was hot and sweating but shivering all at once, nurses clustered around him as Poppy pushed her way through. His fever was spiking dangerously, and with his immune system down, every second counted.

“Push 50 milligrams of Cefepime,” Poppy called out. “And someone get the parents out of here for now, please.” Her voice was steady, even. A nurse passed her the medication, and Poppy threaded the drugs slowly into the IV, her eyes flicking between Luke’s flushed face and the line in her hand.

“It’s okay, Luke,” she coaxed softly as she worked. “Come on, stay with me.”

She handed off the empty syringe. Luke’s breathing began to slow, just enough to ease the frantic edge. Still, his small body shivered even while he slipped into an exhausted, fever-heavy sleep.

“Can we get him warm blankets, please,” Poppy requested, and a nurse nodded, hurrying off. She stepped back then, letting the team move in around him.

Out in the hallway, she finally let out the sharp breath she’d been holding. Dr. McComb was waiting, watching the whole moment with a discerning eye, ready to jump in case Poppy needed saving. She hardly ever did. 

“Good job, Ashford. That was solid,” McComb said.

“Thank you, Dr. McComb,” Poppy replied with a tight smile. Her heart was still racing. If she’d been a few minutes slower—if she hadn’t checked her pager right away, or if she’d walked instead of run—Luke might not have made it. She couldn’t let herself think about that.

At the nurses’ station, her friend and co-resident Kate looked up.

“You’re here? You’re not supposed to be here.” Kate asked, confused.

“Luke,” Poppy murmured, and Kate’s expression softened in understanding. Luke was Poppy’s first when she started residency two months ago. 

“Go home, Pop. I’ve got this, and I’ll call if anything happens,” Kate said gently.

Exhaustion tugged at Poppy’s bones. “Thanks. I’ll just check on the others before heading out.”

“Poppy Ashford” Kate tutted  “you need to learn to rest.” Poppy waved her off and moved through the patient rooms, checking IVs, flipping through charts, giving one last glance at Luke—finally steady on the monitors. With a sigh of relief, she returned to the locker room. The wall clock read 3:02 a.m.

“Fantastic,” she muttered, peeling off her scrubs and tossing them into the laundry bin before tugging on her own clothes.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and pulled open the residents’ locker room door—straight into the Chief of Surgery.

Aiden Prescott. Her father.

“Dr. Prescott,” she breathed, startled. His head turned sharply toward her.

They couldn’t have looked more different. Aiden was tall, lean, and tanned; Poppy, small and pale. He had sharp cheekbones; she was all soft lines. And she liked it that way. She liked it so much that she’d made sure no one here knew she was his daughter.

“Dr. Ashford?” he said, confused, glancing at the clock and then back at her. “You’re not on call tonight.”

He had always kept tabs on her from a distance—at her request—but that didn’t change the fact that he was her dad.

“No. I had a patient,” she answered carefully, eyes flicking down the hall to check for anyone listening. “But I’ll see you tonight, okay?” She hated talking to him in public. Since moving to California they’d found a rhythm—usually dinners at his home—and she was fine with that. The last thing she wanted was anyone thinking nepotism had landed her here.

“Text me when you get home?” he asked, and she nodded briskly before offering a clipped goodnight, thinking about how she landed here.

It was three weeks before Match results went out, and Poppy had been on edge. Despite holding an American passport—thanks to her dad—she knew it was difficult to get into a U.S. residency as an international applicant.

That was when her phone rang through the stillness of her mom’s house. Her dad’s name lit the screen.

“Dad?” she answered.

“Did you apply to Stanford?” His voice was brisk, straight to the point.

Her brows furrowed. She hadn’t told anyone. Her dad was in medicine, sure, but in a completely different field—general surgery.

“Yes?” It came out more like a question. “But how did you know that?”

“I was reviewing applications and saw yours come through,” he said.

“Oh.” she breathed, shocked. “Dad, you didn’t do something ridiculous, right? You didn’t rig it or anything? Please tell me you didn’t pull some kind of string to get me in?” she blurted, her words rushing out in a panic before she could stop herself.

“The honest answer is I was going to,” Aiden admitted. He loved his daughter, though he knew he had been uninvolved. That was on him. But the chance to be near her, to be close? He wouldn’t have passed it up, not again. 

So he pulled her file.

Her resume, clinical hours, grades—all phenomenal. Her board exam scores matched. Her interviewers’ notes glowed: knowledgeable, kind, quick on her feet. Exactly what you wanted in a doctor. She was certain to make Stanford’s shortlist for pediatrics. But was she even interested?

That was when he crossed the line. He used his connections and title to get ahold of her match list—the one thing no program was supposed to see. Confidential, sealed.

And there it was. She had ranked Stanford number one. And Stanford had ranked her number two. A 1:1 match.

“You didn’t, right?” Poppy pressed.

“I didn’t have to.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “You were a 1:1 match.”

The breath caught in her lungs. Holy crap.

“Really?” she whispered. It felt surreal.

“Congratulations, Penelope,” he said softly. Hearing her full name made her laugh a little in disbelief, a triumphant smile spreading across her face.

“Thanks, Dad. Wow.” Shell-shocked, she sank deeper into the couch.

“Pop,” he said after a pause. “Call me, okay? And please—let me help you with this move. Finding an apartment. I’m not asking you to stay with me, unless you want to. You’re welcome to, but at least let me help.” His voice was nearly pleading.

Her instinct was to say no. She didn’t want help. She could handle it. 

“Okay, Pop?” he pressed again, the same way she had pressed him just moments before.

“Yeah, okay fine.” She breathed out “Thank you, Dad.”

When they hung up, something between them had shifted. Suddenly, her father was present in her life in a way she hadn’t expected.

It had only happened once before — three years ago, when her mom died. He’d shown up at her door unnanounced and quietly handled everything. Packed up her mom’s bedroom. Organized the funeral. Stayed for weeks, hovering, watching, making sure she wasn’t just a ghost of herself. Until finally, when she insisted she was fine, she asked him to leave. And he did, with no follow up questions, no hesitations. 

Chapter Text

Conrad Fisher hadn’t expected a second chance.

Not after last summer. Not after Dr. Namazy.

His very first day under her surgical service, he’d mislabeled a test tube. Just one wrong sticker. A mistake that, if it hadn’t been caught, could have meant life or death. Namazy hadn’t cared that he was brand-new, still learning. She’d made an example of him, tearing him apart in the middle of the hospital floor before firing him on the spot. Dr. Namazy was notorious for firing someone on the first day, and that year it was him. 

Conrad thought that was it. That he’d blown it before he even began. His future as a doctor crumbling before his very eyes. 

But somehow, by a stroke of luck, here he was again.

This summer he was back, not under Namazy’s knife-edge surgical service but on Internal Medicine, under Dr. Callahan. Callahan was strict, precise, but not cruel. He expected competence, but he didn’t humiliate. Rounds were tense, not unbearable. Conrad clung to that difference like a lifeline.

Agnes stood beside him most mornings, her notebook always a little more organized than his, her hand flying across the page when Callahan quizzed the students. She was Conrads helping hand, but it didn’t change the fact that Agnes was a gunner, and he wanted to be able to compete. 

They were halfway through the summer rotation when Callahan made the announcement.

“Your shadow blocks start this week. Two weeks in different subspecialties. You ranked them yourselves—you’ll go where the system places you.”

Conrad’s chest tightened. His first choice had been oncology. He hadn’t said that out loud to anyone. It wasn’t something he liked to explain. His second choice, almost as a curiosity, had been pediatric oncology.

That was where he landed.

“You two—” Callahan’s eyes flicked to Conrad and Agnes. “Peds hem–onc. You’ll be with Dr. McComb. Observe, follow cases, help with notes. Nothing more. And don’t get in the way.”

Agnes nudged him with her elbow. “Lucky. Kids are more fun than grumpy adults.”

Conrad swallowed. He wasn’t sure fun was the word.

The pediatric floor felt like stepping into another world. The walls were covered with sea murals, dolphins and bright coral reefs painted around doorframes. Paper stars and origami cranes dangled from the ceiling. The smell of antiseptic still clung to everything, but here it mingled with faint traces of crayons and bubblegum hand soap.

Somewhere down the hall, a child laughed. Somewhere else, a monitor beeped steadily.

Conrad adjusted his stethoscope, nerves wound tight.

They met Dr. McComb at the nurses’ station. She was brisk but not unkind, her white coat rumpled, sleeves rolled past her elbows.

“DePaul. Fisher.” She read off the names from the sheet of paper in front of her. “Good. You’ll shadow me on service. Most of these kids are long-term patients. Any questions or details about the cases—ask the resident assigned. Don’t guess.”

“Understood,” Conrad managed.

“We’ll start with Luke Brown,” McComb said, already walking. “Seven years old. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. He’s had a rough night but he’s stable this morning.”

Seven. Conrad’s pen hesitated over the page. He forced himself to keep writing.

They stopped outside a room marked by a paper sea turtle taped to the door. LUKE was written across it in neat, blocky letters.

Dr. McComb stepped inside, and Conrad and Agnes following, before clicking the door shut. Inside, Luke looked impossibly small against the sheets. A superhero blanket was tucked around him, IV lines curling at his side. His parents hovered near the foot of the bed, pale with exhaustion, from the restless night before. 

The door swung open and someone hurried in, slightly out of breath.

“Sorry—labs just posted.”

The voice was light, British. Familiar.

Poppy.

Luke’s head lifted, fragile but alive with excitement. “Dr. Poppy!” he said, voice raspy but bright. “Do you have it?” He questioned, his back straightening slightly. 

Poppy grinned, reaching into her coat pocket. She slipped a chocolate pudding cup into his hands and leaned toward his parents with a quick, mumble “He’s cleared for it. I double-checked with the doctor.”

Luke clutched it to his chest like treasure.

“Dr. Ashford,” McComb said, a ghost of a fond smile on her lips. “Present, please.”

Poppy nodded, the chart firmly closed in her hands and she made no move to open it. Every word came from memory, clear and certain.

“Luke Brown, seven, acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Day twelve of cycle two. Overnight fever to one hundred two point four, ANC zero on admit. We started cefepime, fifty milligrams per kilo. Cultures drawn. Chest is clear, no focal source. Oral intake minimal overnight but improving this morning. UOP borderline. He’s tired but alert. Vitals are trending the right way.”

“And the cultures?” McComb pressed.

“Pending. We’ll repeat CBC at eleven. If ANC bumps even a little, that’ll be good news.”

“What about mucositis?”

“Grade two yesterday, controlled with mouthwash. Today no new lesions.”

“Plan?”

“Continue cefepime. Add vanc only if he decompensates or cultures indicate. Antipyretics PRN. Strict I&Os. He can nibble bland solids. We cleared pudding.”

Her eyes flicked down toward Luke with a quick smile. “Chocolate pudding, specifically.”

Luke grinned back, cheeks dimpling faintly.

This wasn’t the girl from the night before, flushed from the bar, quick-witted and laughing. This was someone else entirely. Poppy Ashford, in her scrubs, confident, steady, rattling off labs and dosages like she’d been born for this. She moved with assurance, kindness folded into her every word. A kind smile, with little pins, a star, remy from ratatouille, a British flag, littered on her white coat and hanging from her neck a stethoscope with a pink bear clutching it. The ambition in her—it was sharp, magnetic. It unsettled him in a way that felt too close to awe. And Conrad couldn’t take his eyes off her. And she hadn’t even noticed he was in there. 

When the presentation wrapped, McComb led them back into the hall. 

“Fisher. DePaul,” she said. “Dr. Ashford is your point of contact here. Don’t hover, don’t interfere. Ask her anything you don’t know.” 

Dr. McComb walked away and Poppy turned to them, professional smile in place. Her eyes caught on Conrad’s, flickered with surprise—and something like giddy panic—before smoothing again.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Conrad’s mouth went dry. “Hi. I—uh. Conrad. From—”

“The bar,” she finished, a tiny, amused laugh in her voice. “Right. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah. Same,” he said, fumbling. “I mean—not that—just—”

Agnes stepped in smoothly. “Agnes DePaul. We’re second year medical students from Stanford. Nice to meet you and I look forward to learning from you.”

Poppy smiled, Agnes clearly saving Conrad from any further embarrassment, and he was grateful. 

Later, grabbing sandwiches in the cafeteria, Conrad slumped against the table. “It’s hopeless. She’s a resident. There’s no way she’d even want to be around a medical student.” 

Agnes rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know if she wants to be around anyone. And you’re already spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Conrad muttered. Then quieter: “I don’t… like her.”

“Really? Because I’m in love with her. Did you see her in there? She’s like a God. I wanna be her.” Agnes gushed and Conrad sighed again, head tilted up at the ceiling, his eyes shut from the bright lights. Leave it to the universe to introduce him to probably the most passionate, smart, ambitious person to exist. And for her to be completely out of his reach. 

That afternoon, while Conrad was busy running to get bloodwork results, Agnes lingered by the nurses’ station and overheard Poppy and Kate, who stood together in front of their respective charts.

“The med students look so young,” Poppy murmured, almost amused.

Kate scoffed. “You’re just as young.”

Poppy laughed. “Yeah, well, it’s not my fault Oxford has a shorter program. And besides, they’re med students. They aren’t weathered like us.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Please, you? Weathered? As if. If this is you weathered I don’t even wanna know what pre-jaded Poppy Ashford was like.” she teased, Poppy rolling her eye but an amused smile plagued her lips. 

Kate then dropped into an exaggerated, terrible British accent “We cannot be all tea and crumpets, can we, mate?” 

Poppy burst out laughing, clutching her sides. The easy sound carried down the hall.

Agnes smiled to herself before slipping away.

As Agnes caught up with Conrad, fast-walking to keep pace. She leaned close. “She’s our age.” 

“There’s no way, how do you even know that?” Conrad looked over to her. 

“She went to Oxford. That’s a six year program. And assuming she didn’t take a gap year or anything and she’s a first-year resident, mathematically she has to be around our age.” Agnes recounted, and Conrad held another defeated groan.

Because of course, Poppy Ashford went to the number one medical school in the world. Another thing that he knew made her all the more further out of his reach. 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Conrad asked, and Agnes rolled her eyes. 

“Pessimist” she mumbled under her breath, Conrad looking from his friend back to in front of him when his pulse jumped. Across the hall in front of him, Poppy was still laughing with Kate. She glanced up mid-conversation, her gaze snagging on his like she’d felt him staring.

For a second he froze, caught. His feet unmoving as Agnes kept walking. 

But then she smiled—soft, a little shy—and bit her lip like she couldn’t help it. A bubble of laughter slipped out before she turned back to Kate.

Conrad stood there, his thoughts a tangle. The feeling in him was foreign, long and forgotten, inching up his chest. He couldn’t place it, all he knew was that it had bloomed in him fast, too fast, and it left him shaken. 

And he also knows that he hadn’t thought about Belly since last night. 

Chapter Text

Class ended at ten, but it felt like forever. Conrad’s brain felt wrung out, like it had been left on spin cycle too long. Brutal. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking, adding a summer class on top of his rotations. Not even Agnes had done it. He was trying to be ambitious. Idiot. 

He was ready to go home, crawl into his bed and sleep for as long as possible until his alarm, or Agnes woke him up. Whatever came first. 

He looked over, taking in his surroundings when he landed on the library, his eyes scanning it passively, then he looked away, but quickly looked back. 

Bent over a desk lamp glow through the glass window was Poppy, thick rimmed glasses perched on her face, hair pulled back with a claw clip, with strands falling loosely. Her pen tapped restlessly, lips moving around silent words she must have been reciting. Her Oxford sweatshirt was three sizes too large, and she looked focused. Determined. 

Conrad stopped dead on the sidewalk.

Go home. Sleep. Don’t do it.

He even muttered it out loud, voice low, like if he spoke the command, he’d obey it. “Go home, Fisher. Just go.” His feet didn’t move. A second more and he didn’t move. 

Instead, he veered toward The Alto Bean.

Fuck. 

By the time he was standing at the counter, he was berating himself under his breath. “Idiot. Actually an idiot.”

The barista asked for his order, and Conrad’s mouth betrayed him. “Uh… one black coffee. And—” he winced at himself—“a latte.”

When the cups slid across, he stared at them, muttering again. “You’re such an idiot,” he told himself. And then, muttered out, “This is so stupid,” as he pushed open the door to the library with his back. “What if she doesn’t even like coffee? Or cow milk?” He muttered, slowly walked towards Poppy, who looked far too concentrated to be interrupted by him.

He could still turn back, she didn’t see him. That seemed like the best idea. But his feet kept moving.

He cleared his throat, instead, nerves jangling like loose wires. “Hey” he said, catching her attention. 

Poppy’s head jerked up, surprise widening her eyes. For a second she looked startled, then she smiled faintly.

“Conrad? Hey”

He lifted the latte, holding it out with what he hoped was casual nonchalance and not desperation. “So, uh—they made a mistake with my order. They gave me two. You can have this one if you want.”

Her face lit, and she accepted it without hesitation. “That’s lovely of you. Thank you.”

Relief whooshed through him. He covered it with a nod. “Can I—sit here?” He gestured toward the empty chair across from her.

“Of course.” She shifted her notes aside.

Conrad slid into the seat, pulse hammering like he’d just gone skydiving.

He pulled out his notebook from his backpack, and it landed on the table with a smack louder on the table than he intended. The sound cracked the quiet around them and made him wince. 

Smooth. Really smooth. 

Poppys lip curved upward in amusement, but didn’t look up. 

“So,” he said after a beat of silence, Poppy writing off a sentence before looking back at up at him. “What are you studying so late for?” 

“Step three,” she said, pointing at the workbook. “You know what they say — three months for step one, three weeks for step two, three days for step three.” She said with a shrug “but I’m not the type to bet on those odds. Especially on board exams.”

Conrad hummed in agreement like he knew. He did not, in fact, know that’s what they say. He made a note of it anyway, stashing it away like a flash card. “Yeah, I’ve… heard that.” His tone was too flat, and he wondered if she saw right through it. 

Poppy’s mouth curved, but said nothing. Instead, she sipped the latte. “This is really good.”

“Yeah, way better than the vending machine crap” he added, and she hummed in agreement, taking another sip of the latte.

Something unspooled tight in his chest at her approval.

For a while, they studied in silence. Conrad tried to focus, but his eyes kept tugging toward her — the way she scribbled without hesitation, the way her lips moved when she memorized aloud. His notes on physiology blurred into nonsense. He shifted, leaned on one hand, and stared at his page as if that would help. 

Finally, Poppy stretched back with a groan. “If I have to read one more line about treatment protocols, I might actually die.”

“You can’t die,” Conrad said before he could stop himself. “You’ve got boards.”

“Wouldn’t that be a dramatic excuse, though?” She grinned. “Sorry I failed, I was busy dying from reading too much” 

Conrad smiled despite himself. “Wouldn’t recommend that strategy.”

“Have you taken it? Any of the boards?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Soon.” He was studying for his Step One though. 

“God, brutal. Good luck.” She sipped her coffee, sighing. “But seriously though—thank you. This is saving me.”

And it hit him harder than he expected—her saying thank you again, actually grateful for him and his presence and the coffee. Suddenly he didn’t feel like such an idiot. 

They continued in silence, Poppy with her head down studying, stretching her neck once in awhile, and Conrad, effectively not studying, but trying his hardest. The coffee he was drinking keeping him way too wired to even consider sleep at this point.

Later, when Poppys fingers hurt and her brain felt like it was about to fall out of her head, she looked up at Conrad. “So. Where did you grow up?”

“Boston,” he said, looking back up at her then added, “But I spent most of my time at Cousins Beach.”

She tilted her head, a confused look on her features. “With cousins?”

He huffed a laugh. “No. Cousins Beach. It’s near Cape Cod. It’s a tiny town. I learned how to surf and sail there.”

“You surf,” she repeated, skepticism dripping with her words. 

“I’m actually pretty decent at it,” he said, and regretted how defensive it came out. And he worried he said the wrong thing. But her grin widened.

“Alright, surfer boy.”

He ducked his head, biting back his own smile. The nickname landed somewhere warm inside him. It was somewhere like an insult, surely. But he liked how intimate it felt, how close. How normal. 

“And you?” he asked, eager to shift the focus off him, and maybe learn anything about her. 

“London. Always London but I went to school in Oxford” she said, a small smile on her lips as she thought about her university experience. “There’s this bakery near Oxford Circus—makes the best cardamom buns.”

Conrad blinked, immediately filing away the information about cardamom buns. Another thing learnt about her “I’ve never had one” in fact, he didn’t even really know what it was.

She laughed, delighted. “Tragic.”

Conversation flowed between them, their voices edged louder with every word exchanged. Poppy laughed mid-story, loud enough to turn heads.

A sharp shhh from a nearby student cut through.

Conrad froze, heat creeping up his neck.

“That was you,” Poppy whispered, eyes sparkling.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were loud.”

“But I didn’t say anything!” 

She bit her lip to keep from laughing again. “Are you joking? You were so loud! Don’t get me in trouble, Fisher.” 

She was teasing him, and he shook his head, hiding a smile. 

By the time they finally packed up, it was after one in the morning. The air outside was brisk, smelling faintly of damp pavement. Their footsteps fell into rhythm, the street lamps pooling yellow light over the sidewalk.

“I can’t believe I have to be up in six hours.” Conrad complained, and for a second he forgot he was talking to Poppy, Dr. Ashford. And not Poppy. Just a girl. 

“Seven, you mean” she teased him, and narrowed his eyes. 

“Are you stalking me?” he teased. She rolled her eyes, lightly shoving him.

“Toughen up, Fisher. I have to be up in five hours.”

He groaned. “diabolical.”

“Agree.”

When the road split into two paths, Poppy slowed to a stop.

“I’m headed that way” Poppy said, Conrad was heading the opposite way, but before he could overthink it, he said: “I could—walk you back.”

“That’s really sweet of you Conrad, but you really don’t have to. I live right there” she said, pointing vaguely behind her. But all Conrad could think about was just how much he liked the way she said his name. 

“Right. Yeah.” He fumbled, adjusting his bag. “Or—or you could text me. When you get home. Just—so I know you’re safe. I mean, it’s late, and it’s dark, and—” He stopped, fumbling, words slipping everywhere. 

She tilted her head, in mock curiosity. “You don’t even have my number.”

Right. His stomach swooped. He fumbled his phone out from his pocket, nearly dropping it in his scramble to hand it over. “Here. Just—uh. Put it in.”

She took it, thumbs moving fast, and returned it with a small smile. “There. Now you can text me before you buy any more drinks for me.” 

Conrad nodded too quickly. “Do you—we should-do this again sometime?” His voice stumbled, tripping over itself, his voice trailing, and it sounded like a question. And he wanted to kick himself for what felt like the millionth time tonight. 

Actually so stupid, Conrad. 

Her lips curved up, biting her bottom lip as she nodded. “I’d like that,” she said softly.

“Goodnight, Conrad” Poppy said, not waiting before turning around and walking towards her apartment with a smile on her face. She definitely didn’t get as much done as she should’ve but she didn’t find it in her to care. She looked over her shoulder, and Conrad stood there, watching her, and when he saw she noticed, he put his hand up to wave goodbye, and turned around, shaking his head. 

By the time he pushed through his apartment door, his exhaustion had settled deep in his bones. He should’ve been asleep hours ago.

He dropped his bag, half-sat on the arm of the couch to untie his shoes, when his phone buzzed.

Poppy: Just made it home. Thanks again for the coffee, surfer boy. Sweet dreams x

Conrad stared at the little “x.” Kisses.

His chest fluttered embarrassingly, like he was twelve again, the feeling uncharted, novel, giddy. 

He quickly typed a response. 

Conrad: Anytime. I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, Poppy :). 

Conrad stayed where he was, heart thudding. The last year had taught him how to shrink, how to keep his head down, stash his feelings away, and let the ache go quiet. Whatever this was with Poppy felt like the opposite—like some part of him had started to uncurl without asking permission. It was moving faster than his mind could keep up with, and he was the one nudging it along. And he had no desire to stop it. 

Chapter Text

By late July, it was a rhythm.

Not every night, not even every other, but often enough that it felt like something he could count on: a shared coffee after her shift, a walk across campus at odd hours, the occasional trek side by side to the hospital when their mornings aligned. They were friends. Or more than friends. The line blurred whenever she laughed and tipped her head toward him like she couldn’t help it.

Conrad told himself it didn't matter. Then he’d open his phone and see the way the messages stacked—articles he thought she’d find interesting, a photo she’d sent of a squirrel brazenly stealing a packet of chips from a cafeteria table, his reply (three laughing emojis he regretted and then didn’t). Closer. Still careful. Still him, chewing on things he didn’t say out loud. And beating himself up for the things he did. 

Conrad trudged through Stanford’s campus, phone to his ear.

“I’m just saying,” Steven drawled, “you sound… better. Which is either because you finally slept more than four hours or because of—”

“Don’t,” Conrad warned, pushing the door to The Alto Bean with his back.

“—the mysterious library girl.”

“Steven.”

“That’s not a denial—”

And that was the exact moment Conrad turned around. Poppy stood there, a halo of sun wrapped around her, standing near the pastry case, dissecting the chalkboard menu. She glanced toward the door at the sound of the bell and spotted him instantly. Her smile broke wide and easy, and she waved—and before he could think, she was bounding toward him, a bright skip in her step, her spot in line already forgotten, all sunlight and certainty.

“Hey!” Poppy said, wrapping her arms around Conrad, bringing him down by his neck, her fingers brushing against the back of it, and everywhere she touched, he was on fire.

On the other end of the line, Steven caught the new voice. “She’s there, isn’t she? Oh my God—she’s British? Tell me she’s British.”

Conrad pulled away, putting his phone back to his ear, praying that Poppy hadn’t heard his friend’s loud voice. “Steven—”

“Put me on speaker, I need her to teach me the accent. Or tell me all about the Queen. I’ll be so charming—”

“Bye, Steven,” Conrad said a little too nicely, his smile a little too tight as he hung up.

Poppy hadn’t missed it. She’d heard Steven’s voice, and knew he was talking about her. She pretended not to—her smile unbroken, her words perfectly casual—but she liked it. More than liked it. There was something almost dizzying about the fact that Conrad’s people, the ones who mattered, knew she existed. That he’d let her live there, in the space of his life that extended beyond this hospital, this coffee shop, this state. And that Steven seemed to tease him the same way she had done to her friends when they liked a boy in primary school. It felt… special. She felt special. 

“Hey,” he said, turning to her as though nothing had happened, though he didn’t miss the faint flush lingering at her cheeks.

“How was your morning?” she asked, already in stride as they got into line to order their drinks.

“Callahan let us out early,” Conrad said, stepping in sync with her. “Last few weeks of the rotation. He’s… almost human when he isn’t quizzing us.”

“Shocking,” she deadpanned. “I’m between rounds. Ten minutes before I need to run back.”

“Enough time for coffee.”

“Enough time for you to buy me coffee, you mean,” she teased, tilting her head with innocent eyes that said pretty please? He loved how familiar it felt, warm, like he was in on something that was just between them.

He didn’t argue—he never did. In fact, he always bought her coffee, or her drinks, or her food. He wanted to. He just moved them to the counter and ordered without asking: her usual latte, his black coffee. The barista didn’t even blink anymore, but Poppy—every single time—smiled up at him gratefully, squeezing his arm in a silent thanks. His brain always short-circuited when she did that.

They squeezed into a narrow standing space by the window. The Alto Bean smelled like orange peel and espresso, steam ghosting in soft clouds across the glass. Outside, the late-afternoon sun hit the sidewalk in long panes. Inside, Poppy cupped her drink with both hands like treasure. 

“How’s McComb?” Conrad asked, because the truth was, he wanted to know everything in her orbit. And on top of that, he just loved watching her talk. 

“Efficient. Terrifying—in a productive way,” Poppy said, amused. “She asked me three questions before eight a.m. and then fed me a muffin at ten. I live in a constant state of fear and gratitude.”

“That sounds right.”

“Luke’s white blood cell counts are inching up.” Her voice softened, eyebrows furrowed. “He told me he’s going to be Spider-Man for Halloween whether or not he’s still inpatient, so obviously I’m pricing out costumes.”

Conrad felt something ache in his chest. He hated that having a sick mom, then studying medicine, made him all too familiar with what those words meant. But instead he smiled and nodded. “He’ll hold you to it.”

“He always does.” She took a sip, made an appreciative face, and nudged his elbow. “Good choice.” He made the same choice every time, but he knew she always said it as a way to thank him again. He loved how she always did that, without fail.

The relief that flickered through him was outsized. You’re ridiculous, Conrad. He hid it by drinking his coffee and pretending it was very serious business.

Agnes showed up shortly after, hair slightly mussed, dropping her bag on a chair with her usual chaotic flair.

Time had made Agnes and Poppy friendly, not quite friends—Conrad being the bond between them—but Poppy liked Agnes, and Agnes worshiped the ground Poppy walked on. To Agnes, she was everything she aspired to be. When all three sat together, it was Agnes who seemed most on the fringe. Not that she minded. If she noticed, she never said anything.

Poppy’s pager buzzed against the wood, a stubby, insistent vibration that changed the air by a degree. She glanced down, looking at the code, mouth flattening. “That’s me.”

Conrad fought the childish urge to tell the pager to go to hell. “Everything okay?”

“Hopefully,” she said, already standing up. “I’ve got to run back. Thank you—again.” She walked past him, her hand squeezing his shoulder in that same intimate place, her fingers warm at the edge of his collar. Quick, grateful—and it sent fire through him. To Agnes: “Don’t let him get away with not studying. You’ve both got boards.”

“I do study!” Conrad rebutted, both girls ignoring him.

“On it,” Agnes said. Poppy smiled, waved her hand, and walked away. The bell jingled after her, and Conrad sat back in his chair, watching the door long after it shut.

Agnes leaned her chin into her palm, eyes following his. She didn’t say anything right away, letting him flounder in his silence.

“So,” Agnes finally said, breaking the spell. “What the hell are you going to do about her?”

He blinked, slowly. “About…?” Playing dumb.

Agnes leaned in, eyes steady. “Oh, come on. The only person who doesn’t know you like Poppy… is Poppy.”

He stared into his coffee like it might offer a defense. The old scripts rose to his tongue—it’s nothing, I’m fine, we’re just friends—but none of them fit anymore. He wasn’t hesitant because he didn’t know. He knew. And he had admitted it to Agnes too, who at the time triumphantly fist-pumped into the air because finally her matchmaking scheme worked. It was everything else that pinned him: the old fear, the feeling of being the second choice, the dread of handing his chest to someone and watching them set it down. Or worse, throw it on the ground... or in the ocean. 

“I don’t know,” he said finally, honest enough that it scraped.

Agnes nudged him, her tone softened into something truer, closer to the marrow. “You deserve to be happy, Conrad. You deserve this. But you’ve got to try. She won’t wait forever.”

He grimaced, jaw tight. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Then don’t,” she said simply. 

“But,” Agnes added, chin angling toward the window, “if you needed more motivation…”

Conrad followed her gaze.

Outside, halfway down the block, Poppy had been intercepted by a resident he’d seen around the peds floor—a tall guy with a too-white smile and the confidence of a person that never had any hardship. They were talking in that animated, professional way, but the sight cut sharper than he expected. Conrad never thought himself a jealous person, but Poppy Ashford was proving him wrong. The guy said something that made Poppy laugh—a quick, polite burst—and he watched her tuck hair behind her ear. The twist that landed in Conrad’s stomach was ugly and immediate.

He hated that someone else made her smile like that.

“Do something,” Agnes said, not unkind, but alarmingly true. “Before someone else does.”

Conrad swallowed, still watching. The guy’s hands moved when he talked; Poppy nodded, half-listening already, glancing back toward the hospital as if her feet were tugging her away. She touched the resident’s arm in farewell—brief, impersonal—and jogged off.

Conrad let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief washing over his features.

He stared down at the coffee warming his hands, at the faint ring it had left on the counter where her cup had been.

He thought about a library lamp and a latte he’d lied about, about a nickname that still hummed in his ear—surfer boy—and about the way she looked happy to see him in a room, like they were seeing each other for the first time in years. He thought about the quiet of the last year, about how he’d taught himself to make his life small so nothing could crack it.

His life didn’t feel small when she was in it.

“You deserve to be happy, Conrad,” Agnes said again, a small moment of seriousness, one she rarely held. “The last thing you want is to let her pass you by.” Her voice hesitated, debating her next words. “I don’t want to see that happen to you, again.”

“Yeah,” he said, mostly to himself. Her words hit him harder than he anticipated. He hadn’t thought about his approach to Poppy like that. He had been so scared, so nervous of the possibility of what would happen if he did tell her he had feelings for her, if he really blurred the line between love and friendship—and he realized right then and there that there was one fate scarier than that. Not having the chance at all. And he already experienced that once, and that was enough. 

“I’ll—figure something out.” He said, anxiety bubbling in his chest as he made his decision, one he was sure he would move back and forth on a million times before deciding what to do. But he would do it. For Poppy, for a chance at something more with her. He would do it.

Chapter Text

Conrad hadn’t planned it. That was the truth.

Well—he had. In pieces. A hundred ways, in his head, since the first day. He’d practiced what he might say, turned phrases over in the shower, during his walks to class, rehearsed a million times like flashcards before exams. He’d imagined the setting, the words, the way he’d make it sound smooth. But he had never planned the when. He just never found the voice to actually say what he wanted to say. It had almost happened a so many different times, a million different ways. After a shift, on a walk home, a late night study session, and he couldn’t quite find the words. A fear of rejection curling in his stomach.

Until that night, when she looked particularly pretty in the amber glow of the streetlight, curls spilling from her ponytail, cheeks flushed from laughing at something stupid he’d said. It was late, one of their accidental late night study sessions. And then it spilled out of him—before he could overthink it, before he could stop himself. If you had asked him, he would’ve blamed the delirium and that his brain had turned into mush. And if you asked him, he would’ve thanked his delirium as well. 

“Do you—would you want to, um… go out? Like—not here. To Dinner. With me?”

She blinked. Tilted her head. “What?”

His stomach dropped so fast it almost hurt. Oh God, does she not wanna go? Did she not hear me right. Or she did, and it’s worse. God, you’re an idiot. Why would you blurt it out like that? 

“I mean—sorry—I didn’t mean—what I meant was—” He tripped over the words like loose stones underfoot. His ears burned hot. He took a deep breath, in through his mouth, out through his nose before looking right at her.  “Will you go to dinner? With me. Not—not work dinner. Or a friend dinner. Unless you don’t want to. Then forget I said anything.”

She stood shocked at the way his blue eyes zoned in on her, in a way he didn’t often do. She watched him unravel, her lips twitching at the corners. Then her smile broke slow and sweet, tugging wider as the meaning sank in. A burst of happiness lit through her, sudden and almost dizzying, the kind that made her skin hum with warmth. It startled her—how easy it was to say yes. How much she wanted to.

“Conrad,” she said, voice laced with amused warmth, the kind that always seemed to soften for him. “Are you asking me on a date?”

The heat crawled up his neck. She’s gonna say no. This was a mistake.  “I mean—yeah. If you… want to.”

She let the pause hang just long enough to torture him, then very slowly nodded her head, just a little bit, but Conrad saw it, lips curved. “That would be lovely. I’d like that.” She bit her lip, a small hint of nervousness, but Conrad couldn’t wipe the smile off his lips. 

The night of their date, Conrad was home, pacing his bedroom, adjusting the collar of his shirt in the mirror for the fourth time, checking his watch too often. He had changed two different times already, then back again. He had even gone as far as a quick google search on what British guys wore on dates. But then quickly closed the tab. If she wanted to date a British guy, she would simply go find one. 

When his phone buzzed at six-thirty, charging on his bedside table, he quickly skidded towards it, his hand picking it up before nearly dropping it.

I’m still stuck at the hospital. Can’t leave yet. I’ll meet you as soon as I can—promise. I’m so sorry x

For a second, disappointment stabbed sharp in his chest—but it was gone almost as fast. She’s saving kids’ lives. It’s completely fine.

He typed back before he could overthink: Don’t worry about it. I’ll come pick you up. 

The rational part of him knew that this was the rest of her life, the rest of their lives. They would constantly dance between the autonomy of their own lives and the lives of others. He loved how passionate she was about her job. How much she loved it. How good she was at it. 

But it didn’t stop the annoyed grumble that came across his lips when he read the text. He just wanted things to go well. As perfect as he could make it. 

By seven-thirty, clad in a light blue button down and jeans, he was leaning against the pale green wall outside pediatrics, keys in his hand and a coffee in another, figuring Poppy may need it. He scrolled aimlessly on his phone, listened to the squeak of nurses’ sneakers, and tried to stay inconspicuous. He wasn’t sure if Poppy would appreciate him shouting to anyone that would ask that he was going on a date, despite how much he wanted to. But the phone stayed stubbornly silent, no news from Poppy.

By nine, his shoulders were tight with restless energy. He found a seat in the waiting room, right across the entrance of the childrens wing. That was when Kate appeared, eyes tired, a scrub cap still on, and a chart tucked under her arm. 

“Kate” He found himself saying, quickly standing up and jogging towards Kate who looked up in shock. 

“Conrad?” she said, brows lifting. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for Poppy.” His voice came out sharper than he meant. “She was supposed to—” He stopped himself, rubbing the back of his neck. “I haven’t heard from her since earlier.”

“Oh” Kate’s expression shifted, softened. “It’s been a really tough night.”

The words hit like a stone in his gut. Tough night. His mind rushed ahead, trying to fill in blanks he didn’t want to picture. He straightened instantly, every nerve lit with worry.

“She’s at the end of the corridor,” Kate added gently. “Near Lukes room” 

He didn’t wait for more. He was already moving, pushing the double doors of the childrens ward. 

The light at the far end was dimmer, the kind that hummed overhead but didn’t fully reach the floor. That’s where he found her—sitting on the linoleum, a chart discarded beside her, her elbows braced to her knees, head bowed into her hands, a scrub cap tight in her hand. 

“Poppy.” His voice was soft, careful.

Her head snapped up. Her cheeks were damp, eyes rimmed red, and even before she spoke she blurted, “God, Conrad I’m so sorry. I should’ve texted—I should’ve—” Poppy started but Conrad didn’t let her finish.

“Hey.” He cut in gently, sinking down across from her on the floor, knees folding awkwardly in his too-stiff pants. “It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter.” He searched her eyes, and she was already looking at him, in quiet thankfulness. “What happened?”

She shook her head, swallowing hard. “Luke—he went into surgery again. An intestinal perforation. We tried to repair it but there was so much necrotic tissue. They’re not sure if he’s going to make it.” Her chest rose sharply, then broke again. “He’s just a kid, you know? How does this happen to children?”

Realistically, Poppy knew that this happened, even if there wasn’t a child in the world that deserved it. She had picked it. She wanted to help kids. But kids because of how bright they were, how resilient, how untouched they were from tragedy, made the bad bits of it so much harder. Conrad understood it. He hadn’t experienced it with children, but he had with his mom. In his eyes, his mom was just as undeserving of the hand she had been dealt as any other child. He knew how she felt. The same helplessness, the same hollow disbelief. The universe was cruelest to the ones who least deserved it.

Conrad shifted closer, crossing the space until his back touched the wall, shoulders brushing against each other, steadying her.

Her breath hitched. She turned toward him without thinking, leaned her head into his shoulder. She felt him shift, his arm hesitantly wrapping around her shoulders, and she began to sob. Conrad immediately pulled her into him, the position awkward and stiff, but he didn’t care. 

She felt the steadiness of him—quieter, deeper than she’d expected. He wasn’t filling the silence with platitudes, wasn’t scrambling to fix it. He didn’t try to make her feel better, or say the right things. He was just there. And it shocked her, the comfort in that. How easily she leaned in, as if her body had been waiting for permission. How easily he knew what she needed, despite never having done this before.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. The words tumbled out, low and certain, even if they barely scraped past the tightness in his throat. “I’ve got you.”

She clung harder, fingers bunching in the fabric at his ribs.

Minutes blurred. The world outside that hallway faded—the shuffling of nurses, the distant beeping of monitors, even the low intercom announcements. All Conrad felt was her, trembling against him, the weight of her grief pressed into his chest.

When her sobs finally thinned to shaky breaths, she whispered, “I need to get out of here.”

“Come on,” he answered immediately, no hesitation. He brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of his knuckle, pushing her hair a loose hair behind her hair,  his hand lingering against her skin. “Come with me.”

Her eyes searched his—wary, raw, but also something else. Relief. Trust. She nodded, slow but certain.

Conrad stood, pulling her gently with him, and when she swayed, he caught her elbow. Poppy stood tall, attempting to re-tye her hair into a proper ponytail, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand in an attempt to look a little bit put together. Luke’s parents might see her, she didn’t want to look weak or worried. She was his doctor. 

He gathered the chart from the floor, handed it to Poppy as she walked towards the nurses station, quietly passing it to a nurse, asking if they needed anything else. It almost shocked Conrad to his core, just how selfless Poppy was despite the fact she was barely holding it together. When they walked past the nurses station, Conrad jogged up to her and she found herself moving closer to him, wrapping her hand around his arm. 

She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t let go of his sleeve either.

Chapter Text

She didn’t let go of Conrad until they were in his car. Even then, it was reluctant, like some part of him was worried that she might dissolve into the night air.

The ride to his apartment was quiet—full of grief, of exhaustion. Poppy leaned her head against the glass, her reflection faint in the dark window. The city blurred past, lights smearing gold and white. Conrad kept stealing glances at her, wishing he could take some of it from her. She was usually light—bright, even when she was sarcastic or sharp—but tonight she was dimmed. Shut down.

It hit him harder than he expected. He hadn’t seen her like this before, and he hadn’t known her for so long, but the sight made his chest ache. He felt it in a way that was foreign to him, almost unbearable. He’d spent years learning how to guard against pain like this, to box it up until it couldn’t touch him. But watching her fold into herself like that made something inside him throb. He almost hated it—how quickly her sadness became his own.

For Poppy, the silence felt strangely safe. She’d never been good at letting people see her undone. She’d learned long ago that the world expected her to be sunny, chirpy, resilient. Tonight she could barely manage it, just enough to get out of the hospital—and instead of recoiling, Conrad stayed. That alone made her chest twist in a way she didn’t know what to do with. She never relied on anyone, and it scared her just how willing she was to rely on him. 

By the time they stepped inside, she was dragging. Shoes kicked off, shoulders slumped. She muttered, “Sorry, I’m making a mess,” and tried to force a smile, but even that looked like it hurt.

“You’re not,” Conrad said, and the certainty in his voice made her blink. He meant more than the shoes sprawled across the floor. He meant her. She wasn’t a mess. Not to him.

Then, almost awkwardly, he rubbed the back of his neck, finally getting a good look at her. She was still in her scrubs, her pants tattered with specks of blood, Luke’s blood.  “Do you—want something to change into? Just… to be more comfortable.”

She hesitated, then nodded, looking down at her blood tattered scrubs. “Yeah. That would be… nice. Is it okay if I showered?” 

“Yeah of course” he nodded and she smiled. 

He disappeared into his bedroom, rummaging through drawers until he pulled out a pair of old running shorts and one of his sailing sweatshirts—the oversized kind that had seen better days but still carried the faintest trace of his detergent. He hesitated for a second, picturing her in them, and then shook himself, annoyed at his own brain. It wasn’t the time. Still, his pulse felt strange as he handed them to her.

“Wheres the loo?” She asked, and Conrads brain short circuited, trying to piece together what a loo was. 

“Oh” He said, with a sudden realization “in my room, round the corner” he said with a sheepish smile.

She took them without ceremony, vanishing into the bathroom.

When she came back, Conrad’s brain stilled. She looked… small, swallowed by his clothes, the sweatshirt hanging halfway down her thighs, the shorts cinched awkwardly but still too big. She looked dwarfed in them, softer somehow, and he liked it more than he ever thought he would. It was like seeing her wrapped in something that was his, and the thought knocked into him with a force that left him unsettled.

And worse—he caught himself staring too long, wanting too much. The instinct to scold himself was immediate: Idiot. She’s hurting. She trusts you. Keep it to yourself. He shifted his weight, tried to look anywhere else, but the image burned behind his eyelids. The look of her hair wet, his Cousins Sailing sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders, long enough to make it look like a dress, making his heart pound with something he couldn’t name without terrifying himself.

Poppy caught the look in his eyes, quick and unguarded before he tried to mask it, and it did something dizzying to her. She’d worn boyfriends’ shirts before, stolen hoodies from friends, but this felt different. She liked it more than she should have, the warmth of his sweatshirt, the way his scent clung to the fabric. But if she was being honest, she liked the way Conrad was looking at her. She felt suddenly, absurdly… cherished.

She curled on the couch, tugging the sleeves over her hands like it was armor, and Conrad busied himself in the kitchen. The living room bled into the kitchen so that she could see him, watch the way he looked like he had no idea what he was doing, filling a mug, fumbling with the microwave, rummaging through cupboards, and tapping the counter impatiently.

It dawned on her, when he let out a triumphant sigh at the small box, which Poppy instantly recognized, that he was making tea for her. For the first time that night, she almost laughed, masking it with a small smile. It was absurd. Comforting, somehow. As if he was trying so hard just to do something for her, even if it was just tea. She felt it bloom in her chest, this ridiculous fondness, startling her with how much she wanted to hold onto it. To hold onto him. 

When he brought her the mug, he looked almost sheepish. “Tea,” he announced.

Poppy looked at it—watery, the little tag, labelled chamomile hanging out of the cup, the water far too murky, no milk, no sugar—and let out the smallest huff of a laugh. “That’s what you call tea?”

He frowned, defensive. “Tea is just hot water and a tea bag.  What more do you need?”

“You microwaved the water,” she accused, shaking her head, strands of hair slipping loose around her face. “Conrad, that’s… criminal. I can’t. You’ve murdered an ancient tradition.”

“Gosh fine, I’ll just--” he began, pulling his hand back with the tea, and she reached out for it. 

“Stop, give it back, it’s mine!” she bubbled out a laugh, rolling his eyes playfully as he passed it back to her, the girl holding the mug in both her hands. His ears tinged pink, but he was smiling too.

And just like that, in all the heaviness, a pocket of joy broke through.

She brought the mug to her lips anyway, brave. The taste made her grimace, her nose wrinkling, her eyebrows drawing together. She made another face with the second sip, and another after that, but she kept drinking. 

Conrad caught every single one, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Each scrunch of her face, each reluctant swallow, and he found it equally amusing as it was endearing. He’d made it for her, and she was drinking it just because he had.

She cradled the mug anyway, steam curling upward. “I’m going to have to teach you how to make proper tea,” she teased, softer now, “or else this whole dating thing isn’t going to work” her eyes widened, Conrad caught it. The first hint of embarrassment that he’d ever seen out of Poppy Ashford. “...if that’s still something you want.”

Conrad’s answer was immediate. “Yes. Of course. Do you wanna teach me now?” His eyes locked on hers, no hesitation.

She shook her head, bringing the foul drink to her lips “another time, no point making another one. I’m not sure my poor taste buds can take it” He narrowed his eyes at her to which she diverted, pretending she didn’t catch the way he looked at her. 

“Fine, but soon” he said to her. 

Her heart gave a little leap, even as she sipped the awful tea. It startled her—how happy that made her, how warm it spread through her chest. She’d been so tired of disappointment, so practiced at expecting it, that the sheer steadiness of him felt like a revelation. She pressed the mug to her lips to hide the smile that wanted to creep there, the flutter of something she couldn’t name.

For a moment, the heaviness of the night shifted, like clouds parting just enough to glimpse the sky. She was shocked at how seamless it felt, this rhythm between them, how easily he could pull her back from the edge. It scared her a little, how much she needed that. Needed him. It maybe even scared her a little bit more how much she wanted him.

They ended up putting on a movie—her comfort movie, embarrassingly enough. What a Girl Wants.

He laughed when she picked it, the opening credits rolling on the screen. “That’s so… British.”

“It’s Amanda Bynes!” she shot back, mock-offended.

“Still British,” he teased, and it made her snort despite herself.

The movie flickered in the background. The two of them side by side, bodies barely touching, a throw blanket that Conrad owned keeping them close to each other. Poppy barely made it halfway through before the weight of the day caught up to her. Her eyelids grew heavy, the sweatshirt sleeve slipping down as her head lolled slightly against his shoulder.

Conrad watched her fade. Watched her fight it, then lose. And when she was finally gone to the world, he moved. Carefully, he slid his arms beneath her and lifted her. She stirred faintly, groggy, but didn’t protest, snuggling closer into him. She felt impossibly light in his arms.

Poppy caught the faintest sense of it, half-dreaming, the warmth of his chest against her, the steadiness of his hold. She wanted to stay there forever. It was the last thought she had before she sank deeper.

He carried her to his bed, lowering her gently onto the mattress. She blinked at him once, dazed, murmured something he couldn’t quite catch, and then slipped back under.

Conrad stood there, looking at her in his bed, in his sweatshirt, curled against his pillow. The sight knocked the air out of him. Something about it—about her being here, in his space, trusting him this much—terrified him. Because it meant she was something he was suddenly desperately scared to lose.

And then the spiral came. She’s in your bed. Don’t screw this up. She’s going to wake up and realize you’re not worth it. She’s going to leave. He felt the panic pressing at the edges, the same old loop of self-reproach, of expecting the worst. But then she shifted slightly in her sleep, sighing softly into his pillow in comfort, and the sound broke him open.

Because in that moment he wanted—desperately—to believe it was different this time. That maybe she saw something worth staying for. 

She wasn’t conscious to know it, but Poppy had never felt so seen. Somewhere in the fog of sleep, she realized: she’d let him see her in pieces tonight, the not-bubbly version, the one that hurt too much. And instead of running, he’d made her tea. He’d put on her comfort show. He didn’t pry to discuss and dissect. He’d stayed. The knowledge softened something in her she hadn’t known was hardened.

He debated sleeping on the floor, the bed, or the couch. Every option felt wrong. Every option felt too close and too far all at once. And it shocked him how desperately he wished he could just crawl in next to her, not to do anything, just to be there, surrounded by her warmth. Just to be allowed the privilege of that closeness.

Instead, he took the couch. Didn’t even bother to grab a pillow from his room. He lay there, uncomfortable, the door open so he could see her in case she needed anything. He stared into the dark for a long time, listening for her breathing, until finally—finally—he fell asleep.

But it wasn’t easy. His body ached from the way the cushions dug into him, but the real ache was in his chest. His mind wouldn’t stop. She’s in there, in my bed, wearing my clothes, sleeping. How could I want this so much? How could I already need it? He thought of his mother—who was the only other person in the world to seem to show him unequivocal softness. Affection that he never had to work for, always open, always willing. He hadn’t seen that with anyone else. He hadn’t received that with anyone else. But there was something impossibly bright about Poppy. Like she was the sun, and all things bright and good. And he was getting little glimpses of it. How much she cared, how much she worked for, with nothing in return to be asked for. 

He turned onto his side, curled tight against the couch’s edge, fighting the heat behind his eyes. Don’t want too much. And yet, he did. God, he did. He wanted her laughter in his apartment again, her face scrunched up over bad tea, her small weight in his arms like it belonged there.

It terrified him. And it thrilled him. And it kept him awake long after he should’ve surrendered to sleep.

Chapter Text

Poppy slowly felt her mind pull out of unconsciousness, followed by her body, stiff and wound up. For a second she was confused, her eyes slowly opening. Oh. She looked around her. She was in Conrad’s room, clad in his sweatshirt.

The first thing Poppy saw when her eyes shifted into focus was Conrad. The door was wide open, and there he was, asleep on the couch. He hadn’t even bothered with a blanket, one arm crooked under his head, body tilted toward her like he’d been standing guard even in his sleep. It looked so uncomfortable.

For a moment, she just lay there, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Then she slid quietly out of bed, padding barefoot into the living room. She grabbed the throw blanket that was on the edge of the couch, and tucked it around him, smoothing it across his chest before she could think twice. His face softened under the touch, like he’d been waiting for warmth. She liked to believe that maybe he was waiting for hers. 

She slowly grabbed the abandoned mugs from the night before, padding toward the kitchen, and quietly putting them into the sink, the time on the microwave reading 6:45. It was early, and as much as she hated being an early riser, her life as a doctor had surely changed it for her. Whether she wanted it to or not.

She quickly decided she should make him breakfast, a small token of her appreciation for everything he did for her last night. She wanted him to know she recognized it, and that she was grateful.

She pulled the fridge open, wincing at what she saw. Chicken breasts in cling film. Three bottles of Gatorade. A lonely ketchup bottle, the liquid already separating inside. Quinoa in a Tupperware. Gross.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered. She opened every cabinet—crackers, stale cereal, a jar of peanut butter with the lid half unscrewed. His kitchen was embarrassingly sparse with a couple fruit in his bowl, at best. It was clear to her he either didn’t know how to cook, ordered too much takeout, or didn’t spend that much time at home. Or all three. No sugar. Hardly any spices. No eggs. Two pans. No kettle. How does anyone live like this?

She stood in the middle of the kitchen, debating her next move. Her eyes swiped over to Conrad, who had a small smile ghosted on his lips as he slept. And she decided.

Her eyes caught on a Boston Red Sox cap hanging by the door. Without hesitation, she plucked it from the hook and shoved it on, her wavy bedhead managed under the rim of his hat. If I’m already wearing half his closet, what’s one more thing?

His keys were on the counter. She slid them into her pocket, deciding that his sweatshirt was passable for seven in the morning, grabbed her wallet, and slipped out the door.

Conrad woke to absence.

The bed—empty. The apartment—too quiet.

Panic shot through him like a live wire. His heart kicked up fast and ugly, hissing at how stiff his neck was. He’d done something wrong. Driven her away. He pressed his hands into his eyes, swearing under his breath. Fuck. I scared her, I must’ve. Dammit.

He stood from the couch, back sore and body aching but he didn’t care. He scanned the space. Bed—empty. Door—closed. Her shoes—gone. But her bag still lay at the foot of the coffee table. Maybe she was in the bathroom.

“Poppy?” His voice cracked in the silence, throat tight. No answer.

He fell back into the couch. He didn't know what he did wrong, but it must've been something. Maybe he was too familiar, too close. This enormous feeling of dread and regret washing over him when the door swung open.  His head snapped up, Poppy stepping inside, his hat pulled low over her head, arms full of grocery bags.

Relief nearly knocked him flat.

“Where were you?” The words came out sharper, sterner than he meant, relief bleeding into fear.

Poppy’s smile didn’t falter. She held up the bags. “To the shop. Your fridge is bloody bare. And this—” she flicked the brim of the hat—“suits me better.”

Conrad just stared, a sense of calm washing over him. The sweatshirt hung off her shoulders, the running shorts barely peeking out from under the top, and now the hat tilted over her eyes like it had always been hers. His brain stilled. Yet again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get over her looking like that. Like she was so deeply ingrained in his life.

“Yeah,” he managed, weakly. A tight smile. “It does.”

He immediately noticed just how many bags she was carrying, his body shooting up, and pulling some of the bags from her. His hand brushed hers as he took one, knuckles grazing. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

She breezed through the kitchen, unloading everything meticulously, making homes for things in Conrad’s apartment. He debated helping her, telling her where she could place the eggs, but when he grabbed a bag and she shot him a look, he decided that his best move was to stay out of her way. It was his kitchen, sure, but he liked the way Poppy stood in it, creating a sense of familiarity. He liked it more than he was willing to admit. Still, he hovered close, sometimes passing her jars before she could reach them, his hand brushing her wrist, her elbow. Neither mentioned it, but neither moved away either.

“Honestly, Conrad. Chicken, three bottles of Gatorade, and the red kind. Who even likes the red kind? How do you survive?”

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Efficiently?”

“You’re tragic,” she declared, bending into the fridge to pull out some of the food she had just put in. Pulling out a pan and turning on the stove.

He sunk into the counter chair, watching her take command of his kitchen, like she’d been here a hundred times. He didn’t realize he was smiling until she glanced up and grinned back, her eyes lit like she’d caught him.

“What are you making?” He found himself asking as she pulled out two plates, inspecting it as if she believed he didn’t wash his own kitchenware.

“Fry-up,” Poppy said back casually, looking back at him to see his furrowed eyebrows. “It’s like a proper English breakfast. Except there are obviously some things you can’t quite get in America. So whatever was at the grocer’s would have to do,” she added, and Conrad found his smile growing. He loved just how British she sounded across the string of words.

“What are you missing?”

Poppy turned back, her eyes leaving the pans like she was thinking. “Mushrooms, which America obviously has but I’m not the biggest fan. Black pudding. Baked beans, the grocers did have that, but I wasn’t quite wanting that today.”

“Oh good.” Conrad nodded. “I’m not the biggest fan of beans, anyway,” he added, and Poppy found herself chuckling at that. She doubted that Conrad even really knew what he was saying. British beans weren’t like American beans.

“Tada!” She finally said, plating up the final pieces of toast before pushing a plate toward Conrad, and leaving hers in front of her, her body standing, leaning on the counter.

“Poppy, come sit,” he said, pulling her plate next to him and patting the chair. She nodded, happily walking over to him and plopping herself down.

Their knees brushed under the table. Once, then again. Neither of them moved.

Later, when plates were cleared, Conrad insisting that he wash the dishes, she looked over at him as he stood in front of the sink, drying a bowl.

“Typically you have tea with fry-ups, but it’s quite clear that if I made tea after the fry-up, it would take so long to teach you that the food would’ve gone cold.” She teased, picking herself up from the chair and pulling out a box that held a kettle.

“You bought a kettle?” He asked, Poppy smiling brightly as she pulled it out. White with little blue polka dots. He let out a little laugh at it.

"I bought you a kettle." she said it was like the easiest thing in the world. Poppy slowly cementing herself into his life, whether she really knew it or not. “Lesson one: kettles. You do not microwave water. Ever. I’ll let that shit slide once, but never twice.” She said seriously, her eyes narrowing in on him until he nodded.

Conrad deadpanned, “Noted.” He stood up, opening a drawer and pulling out a pen and his yellow legal pad and wrote at the top Poppy’s Tea Recipe.

She filled the kettle she’d bought, explaining the timing and steeping like a lecture. Conrad, to her surprise, continued to listen intently, cataloguing every detail, and writing it on the pad. He wasn’t joking—he was really trying.

“You’re actually taking this seriously,” she teased as the kettle hummed behind them.

“You said we couldn’t date until I learned,” he replied simply, and her stomach dipped.

She blinked, smiling despite herself. “Fair point.” She pulled out the mugs. “Conrad, could you pull out the milk please?” she asked, and Conrad nodded, hopping off the chair and pulling the fridge open.

As he moved past her, his hand brushed against her back, light, guiding. It lingered a second too long. Poppy’s pulse kicked.

Conrad’s phone started blaring, and he turned around, head peering over the phone lighting up. Steven.

Conrad groaned, thumb hovering to decline, but Poppy nudged him. “You can answer, you know? If you don’t want to, it’s fine. But don’t ignore him because I’m here.” She smiled at him, and he nodded.

He sighed and swiped. Steven’s grin filled the screen as Conrad propped his phone against the kitchen towel roll. “Conrad, man I was just—oh!” Steven said, Poppy coming into view, her arm brushing Conrad’s as she leaned into his space to reach for the sugar.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you had—” Steven cleared his throat, Conrad’s eyes narrowing as Steven’s gaze flicked between the two, eyebrows raising at the clothes she was wearing. “Company.”

Poppy looked over. “Hi, I’m Poppy. Pleasure to meet you.” She said with a bright smile, placing two hot mugs of water with tea bags in front of the pair of them.

Steven grinned. “You're Poppy? Oh my God, you’re real.”

"You talking about me, surfer boy?" Poppy teased, elbow nudging Conrad in mock offense. “I promise I exist.”

“British too,” Steven said, clearly delighted. “Con, you’ve been holding out on me. Poppy, teach him the accent. Or, I don’t know, tell me what crisps actually are.”

Poppy chuckled, tucking hair behind her ear. “Well, crisps are chips. Chips are fries. And Conrad’s tea-making skills are a national embarrassment.”

Conrad rolled his eyes, but her shoulder brushed his as she said it, her hip knocking into his when she reached past him. Casual. Easy. Too easy.

“Please tell me he’s a bad student,” Steven begged.

Poppy shook her head, grinning. “He’s actually not bad. Diligent, really.”

“Hear that, Steven?” Conrad teased, glancing sidelong at Poppy. 

“Oh, Conrad swap your mug with mine” Poppy insisted, grabbing the mug out of Conrads hands before he could protest.

“What? Why?” His voice getting a little higher and she rolled her eyes. 

“How will I know if you were listening if I don’t try the one you made, and how will you know what a perfect tea tastes like?” She asked, and Conrad didn’t have a rebuttal so he let out a little laugh, shaking her head. 

She raised her mug, clinking it against his, their hands bumping as their eyes caught longer than necessary.

Steven caught it—saw the way their arms leaned into each other, the small space between them. His grin widened, but for once, he didn’t tease. He just looked happy.

“Anyway, I should go,” Steven said finally. “Nice to meet you, Poppy.”

“You too,” she said warmly.

The call ended. A buzz of a new message came through almost immediately.

I’ve never seen you so damn happy.

Poppy glanced at the phone, then back at her mug. The pink at her cheeks gave her away. She’d seen it. And she didn’t hate it.

They sat together at the table, tea steaming between them. Poppy glanced around his flat—books stacked by the couch, surfboard leaning against the wall, the cap now gone from its hook. She’d woken heavy, but somehow the morning felt light. With him, it always shifted that way.

Her knee brushed his under the table, once, then again. Neither moved. His hand lingered near hers on the tabletop, close enough that the heat of it sank into her skin.

She felt her chest tighten in a way that was both terrifying and wonderful. Because she liked him. She knew it now, even if she couldn’t name it aloud, even if she wasn’t ready to. She liked that he made space for her without asking questions. She liked that his friends knew her name. She liked that he’d tried—really tried—to learn how to make tea just because she told him to. And she especially liked, that after she approved his tea, though it wasn’t perfect, he happily took the page off the yellow pad and tacked it onto his fridge with a little silver magnet. Proof that he cared.

Conrad sipped his tea, cataloguing the way she stole his hat like it had always been hers and the exact taste of the tea so he could recreate it one day. He thought about last night, about the weight of her on his bed, about this morning and her laughter in his kitchen. He’d thought she couldn’t surprise him anymore. But here she was, in his sweatshirt, stocking his fridge, teaching him how to make tea.

And he couldn’t imagine wanting anything more permanent than this.

Chapter Text

Conrad noticed first in the hall.

He wasn’t even trying to. He’d been trailing Callahan through the internal medicine ward when he caught sight of her — Poppy in her blue scrubs, chart tucked under her arm, hair looped back in braids. She’d been on her way somewhere, moving quick, until Dr. Prescott intercepted her.

It wasn’t once. It was every time.

Conrad couldn’t unsee it now: Prescott slowing her down with a hand on her arm, leaning in to ask something only she could hear. She’d look up at him, brows drawn, eyes sharp with that look she had when she was annoyed but too polite to snap. The corner of her mouth always tugged, half eye-roll, half sigh. Then she’d answer him anyway. Every time.

Conrad told himself he didn’t care. Prescott was old enough to be her dad—hell, older. There was no way. Still, his stomach twisted when he caught them in the same frame. Too familiar. Too frequent. He shoved it down, telling himself there had to be another reason.

And then came the phone.

The first time he noticed her step into the hall, whispering fast into her cell, he thought nothing of it. The second time, he caught the name lighting up her screen: Prescott. Always Prescott. And when she came back, her mouth pressed into that tight line again, like whatever he said lingered.

The final straw was the “Love you.”

Late, their notes sprawled across Conrad’s apartment table — a routine they’d slipped into without much thought. Poppy curled up sideways in his chair, socks tucked under her, pen moving quickly across the page. Conrad had been rereading his notes when her phone buzzed. She didn’t hesitate, answering mid-scribble.

“Hi. Yeah. No, I ate. Yes, I promise. All right—love you too.”

Conrad’s pen froze above the paper.

Love you.

His stomach dropped. The pen slipped from his hand, clattering too loud against the table. Panic rose sharp and stupid in his chest. No, no, no. She wouldn’t. Prescott? There’s no way. He’s her boss. He’s… Jesus Christ, Conrad, stop. But the word replayed in his head like a chant, the syllables twisting until they sounded wrong. Love you. Love you.

He tried to logic his way out of it. Maybe she says it to friends. Maybe it’s a British thing. Maybe she’s dating him and that’s why— His chest knotted tighter. He forced himself to breathe, eyes locked on his notes, ink blurring. There has to be another reason. There has to be.

Before he could stop himself: “was that… Dr. Prescott?”

Poppy’s head snapped up. For a second she just stared, caught. The pen stilled in her hand.

Her pulse spiked. She’d kept this close, close enough that no one here knew—not McComb, not Kate, not anyone. She didn’t want anyone assuming strings had been pulled, that her residency was a hand-me-down instead of something she earned. For a moment, she debated dodging, laughing it off. But something in Conrad’s expression—uncertain, almost wounded—made her pause.

If we’re becoming something… I can’t lie to him.

She exhaled, steeling herself. “That’s because he’s my dad.”

The words landed like a brick in Conrad’s chest.

“Your—” He blinked. “Your dad?”

“Mhm.” She nodded, quick, like ripping off a plaster. “Dr. Aiden Prescott. Chief of Surgery. He’s my father.” Her voice carried a practiced lightness, but Conrad saw the nerves in her fingers tapping her pen.

His brain scrambled to re-sort the pieces. The hallway talks. The calls. The texts. His stomach did a sharp twist of relief and embarrassment all at once. Jesus. Her dad.

“I don’t—” His throat caught. “I didn’t know.”

“Not many people do.” She let out a short breath. “I didn’t want anyone thinking I only got this spot because of him. I didn’t. He found out after I’d already applied. Nearly had a coronary when he saw my file.” She laughed once, low and nervous. “Apparently he considered pulling it. Or worse—pushing it through. Rigging it. Said he thought about pulling strings to get me in.”

Conrad’s brow furrowed. “But he didn’t?”

“No.” She shook her head firmly. “He looked at my scores, my interviews, my recs. I was top of Stanford’s list. Top of mine too. A one-to-one match. He told me all he did was sleuth. Which is honestly more than he should’ve done to begin with.”

Conrad nodded, slow. His chest tugged strangely at the idea of Prescott—Chief of Surgery, intimidating, impossible Prescott—sitting there staring at her file like any other dad, panicking about his daughter.

“So is that why you moved here?” he asked quietly. “To be closer to him?”

Poppy froze, then shook her head fast, firm. “No. Not at all.” A beat, her voice dipping softer: “I couldn’t stay in London. Not after my mum died.”

The air thinned. Conrad’s pen slipped from his hand.

“What happened?” His voice was barely there.

“She went in for a routine procedure. Something small. The safest thing.” Poppy swallowed. “She developed a clot. Pulmonary embolism. They told me it was a one percent chance. And she was the one.”

Her pen pressed hard enough to dent the page. “She never even broke rules. Never jaywalked. And then she was gone. Just like that.”

Conrad’s chest squeezed until it hurt. His own voice came rough, unsteady. “My mom had cancer. Twice. First when I was a kid. She beat it. Came back again when I was eighteen. She… she didn’t make it that time.”

Poppy’s eyes flicked up. Her throat tightened. “Conrad, I’m so sorry.” The words weren’t filler—they came out with the heaviness of recognition, the kind that lived deep in her ribs. I know. I really do.

“That’s brutal,” she added softly.

“Yeah.” Conrad rubbed a hand over his face. “After that, things with my family got… complicated. Messy. I don’t talk about it much.”

Poppy’s lips curved, brittle but real. “Dead moms club. Membership of two.”

Conrad let out a startled laugh, shaky but genuine. Somehow it landed.

“Do we get a badge?” he asked, dry, surprising even himself.

“Or a secret handshake,” she volleyed back, her grin tugging despite the ache in her chest. “Though it’d probably be too depressing.”

“Yeah,” Conrad said, eyes warm despite the hollowness. “Grief isn’t really a team sport.”

“Still,” Poppy murmured, a little softer now. “In a weird, twisted way, It’s nice not to be the only one in the room who knows what it feels like.”

Conrad’s throat tightened. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed that too.

For a second, silence stretched. Not heavy, but full. Conrad felt the weight of it in his chest—how rare it was to sit across from someone who didn’t need him to translate the sharp edges of loss. She just knew. And it made something in him unclench. With Steven or Jeremiah—or Belly, back then—every conversation about his mom carried extra gravity, like he had to hold his own grief and theirs at the same time, make room for everyone else’s history with her. With Poppy, he didn’t have to watch what he said, and how he said it. He could say she loved the beach house and it meant exactly what it meant.

Across from him, Poppy was thinking almost the same thing. She’d carried the story of her mother’s death like a locked box, polite sympathy never quite reaching the marrow. But here, with Conrad, it felt different. He understood without her needing to explain every fracture. For once, she didn’t feel like the odd one out in a room. Her mum had been the fixed point on her compass; losing her had unmoored everything. Sitting here, she felt—if not steady—at least less alone.

“What was she like?” Poppy asked, leaning forward. Her eyes were intent, like she really wanted to know.

He blinked, then found himself talking. “She loved Cousins. The beach house. Said salt air fixed everything. She was also incredibly type A. Packing lists, grocery lists. She was a big list person.” He smiled faintly. “She was good like that.”

He kept going, surprising himself with how easy it was. “She used to tuck notes everywhere. Inside paperbacks. In the glovebox. On the spice rack. Little things—Sunscreen, please. Keys live on the hook. Remember to breathe. I still find them sometimes when I’m not looking.” A breath that was half a laugh. “They feel like… breadcrumbs.”

“She sounds brilliant.”

“She was.” The words caught, but he pushed through. “I’d love to show it to you sometime. The house.” The words slipped out before he could reel them back. His stomach flipped.

But Poppy didn’t flinch. She smiled, soft, like she understood exactly what it meant. “I’d like that.”

Silence settled. Not heavy—just full.

“My mum loved markets,” Poppy offered. “Street markets in London. Flowers, old books, terrible knick-knacks. She dragged me to every single one. I used to hate it. Now—” her throat caught “—I’d give anything to watch her argue over a wilted bouquet again.” She smiled, small and crooked. “She’d make me split a cardamom bun, always steal the middle because it’s the softest bit, and then pretend she hadn’t.”

Conrad filed that away—the bun, the middle piece—like everything else that mattered about her. “Sounds like she made everything an adventure.”

“She did.” And saying it didn’t crack her open the way it usually did. Her mum had been her anchor; saying the word out loud to someone who understood felt almost… gentle.

And for both of them, it was startling, the quiet relief of being here, talking like this. For Conrad, it was the first time in years he’d said his mom’s name out loud and not felt hollow. For Poppy, it was the first time she told someone about her mum without choking on the unfairness of it. They’d both lost their anchors, and for once, they weren’t adrift alone.

Her pager buzzed, slicing through the quiet.

She groaned, loud, tipping her head back against the chair. “You’ve got to be joking.” For a heartbeat, she stayed there, like she could will it silent. Then she dragged herself up, gathering her things with a reluctant sigh.

Conrad’s voice followed her, soft. “Poppy—thanks. For telling me.”

She glanced back, eyes holding his for a beat. You trust him, she reminded herself. You want to. “Thanks for asking.”

And then she was gone, leaving him in the dim glow of his desk lamp, staring at the ink-smeared notes and the echo of her voice.

Grief felt lighter when it was shared.

And he hadn’t realized until now how much he wanted to carry hers with her.