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Contrary to popular belief, Samira Mohan does believe in love. Sure, she might be a cynic when it comes to matters of her own heart and prospects, but she knows love when she sees it. Knows it exists somewhere, somehow, for some people. Maybe not her, but definitely some people.
She saw it between her parents, even if they didn’t show it openly. Felt it from them both for thirteen golden years. Witnesses it now between patients and their families at their bedsides: Joyce and Ondine, Renee and Wendy, Eddie and Frida and Carrie, Orlando and Lorrie and Ana.
One might not imagine there is much of anything sweet and good in the pits of the ER, but Samira sees love there every day. Cassie gushing about Harrison’s latest school achievements, Langdon showing off photos of his kids and their very ill-trained goldendoodle, Mel calling Becca when she has five minutes to spare.
She sees how love warps, too. Robby’s grief over Adamson twisting into darkness. Dana’s desire to nurture causing her to look over her shoulder at every shadow.
And then there is the absence of love. Her frequent flyers coming in for a check up and chat. Sick people with nowhere and no one else to turn to.
Samira herself, getting older and lonelier with every passing year.
Samira was never one of those kids that daydreamed about a future wedding or a house full of children. It was only after her father died that she realized all the things she’d be losing out on—getting walked down the aisle, having grandparent visits—and only then did she feel the daydreams arise, usually when she least wanted them to, when a patient case would hit too close to home or another birthday came and went.
So, she tried to focus instead on the logistics of love. See, Samira had a plan all laid out; it was going to be perfect. Keep her head down through med school, through residency, then return home to Jersey for a fellowship, where she could finally put down roots and put up living room curtains and find someone to love who might love her in return.
This plan was all well and good, until her mother had to go and fall in love again herself.
So now here she was, trudging through her final year of residency, no clue where she was headed next, and certainly with no one alongside her. No to-be-discovered partner in New Jersey, and definitely no one in Pittsburgh to stay for, beyond one unfortunate salt-and-peppered crush that didn't amount to anything except demonstrating Samira’s ability to turn small acts of kindness into signs of greater attachment.
For all her posturing that she was comfortable being alone, she felt a secret shame that it probably would be nice to have someone to talk to late at night, someone to bounce ideas with about future fellowships and sip tea at the kitchen counter, someone to tell her she is on the right track, someone to watch old romantic comedies with, someone who loves to spend time with her despite—or because of—her general social awkwardness and occasional abrasiveness.
So yes, Samira Mohan believes in love. She just isn't so sure there is any love to be found for her.
"Hey, Dr. Mohan. You going tomorrow?" Crus leaned on his palms next to Samira's monitor, temporarily distracting her from the chart she was filling out.
"Going where?" Samira barely glanced up in between typing.
"What do you mean where? The game."
"Hmm?"
"C'mon, Samira." Crus raised up, playfully waving an arm in front of Samira's face, breaking her trance. "The Pirates game? You know, the team bonding Gloria's trying to get us to do?"
Samira's eyes widened. "Oh! I remember that email." She bit her lip, considering. "I don't think I ever RSVPed, though. Besides, I've got a lot of catching up to do with my applications, you know how it is. I've completely fallen behind."
Crus smiled widely. "No RSVP necessary. You're on the night shift now, you've sold your soul to whatever corporate thinks will make up for our destroyed sleep schedules."
"Does corporate realize that forcing the night staff to go to a daytime baseball game in between shifts instead of going to bed is completely counterintuitive to their mission of looking out for our wellbeing?" Samira muttered.
"I like that you think they actually care about us," Crus smirked. "You know Gloria just got us these comped tickets so she can post a picture on the hospital website of the nocturnal doctors getting some sun."
"You guys talking about the Pirates tomorrow?" Mateo asked as he rolled his chair over, evidently having overheard the two discussing. "I think it'll be fun. Me and Shen are gonna grab beers before if you both wanna join. And, y'know, during the game too."
"Oh, count me in, man," Crus nodded.
"I'll pass," Samira said primly, attempting to return to her chart. "Honestly, required attendance or not, I don't really think it's my scene."
"What's not your scene?" A low voice rumbled out from behind Samira's chair, and she didn't have to swivel to know who it belonged to. Her unfortunate crush in the flesh.
"Hey, Dr. Abbot. Samira here claims she needs to catch up on her applications instead of joining the nightcrawlers on our big company-mandated field trip tomorrow," Crus ratted out Samira almost instantly.
"You know when I switched from day to night, Samira, it was really helpful to hang with the team outside of work, get a feel for everyone. It gets dark in here, literally, without that," Mateo supplied.
Samira wanted to say that she didn't need to do any extracurricular team bonding: for one, she'd probably be leaving PTMC in a year anyway; but for two, even after only a few weeks on night shift following the 4th of July, Samira already felt strangely settled in. Maybe it was that the Slo-Mo reputation had never really seeped into the nighttime sphere. Maybe it was that Robby wasn't yelling about wait times and satisfaction scores. Maybe it was that the night crew naturally were a little easier to connect with by virtue of having to be open minded to deal with some of the wildest cases walking through the doors at all hours. (Or maybe it was that one of the night shift attendings could give her tachycardia in one moment, then a rush of oxygen in the next. She was still sorting through that particular diagnosis.) Whatever the case, Samira was perfectly fine staying where she was. No need for anything deeper.
"He's right, Dr. Mohan." Jack Abbot circled from behind Samira's chair to appear in front of her, his arms tucked behind his back, his chin tilted upwards, even as he peered down. "Wouldn't want our brightest R4 to get lost in the darkness alone."
"Ha, ha," Samira rolled her eyes, ignoring the burning feeling all over her face. "I don't think watching a bunch of men wandering around a dirt field is going to cure me of any nightshift malaise."
"I think you're thinking of soccer," Abbot volleyed back.
”I think,” Samira began as she stood up, clicking out of her chart. She wasn’t going to get anything done with everyone hovering. “That you don’t all need to convince me to get a life by dragging me to a baseball game. I’m doing just fine.”
”Not dragging. Inviting. Company mandated, remember?” Abbot raised a brow. “Wouldn’t want to lose those perfect Press Ganey scores, right?”
”I don’t see how me going to the game translates to patient satisfaction.”
”Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will catch a fly ball to the chest, or chokes on a hot dog,” Abbot smiled.
Samira couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “You think you can bring your go-bag through the metal detectors just in case?”
”No go-bag needed. Just need you.” And with that, Abbot knocked his shoulder against hers playfully as he walked away from the hub, while knocking Samira momentarily speechless.
Crus and Mateo gave Samira a look. She’d completely forgotten they were both still there. “What?”
Mateo shrugged. “Nothing, nothing. Just guess we’ll be seeing you there tomorrow after all.” Crus let out a laugh behind.
Samira pursed her lips. She wouldn’t dignify that with a response.
Here’s the thing about Samira’s unfortunate crush. It began as purely intellectual curiosity. A case study, even. Dr. Jack Abbot, Senior Attending and designated ER Cowboy, behaved so differently from Robby, and even Adamson, whom Samira had had the privilege of meeting during her MS3 and MS4 rotations. Samira was nothing if not a voracious learner, and so she simply wanted to know more about the mysterious nightshift attending. So she began to catalogue what she knew about him, what she liked and didn't.
She liked his no-BS approach, liked even more that it didn't take away from his deep compassion for patients. She liked that he could pull out an endless roster of insane moves in trauma rooms and allow her to jump in on them, even defend her from Walsh’s glare in the process. She liked that he was willing to bend the rules to meet people where they were at: mifepristone for a teenager, Uber for an AMA patient. (She especially liked that he seemed to be willing to do the latter for her specifically. No one had ever acknowledged her patient care in such a gentle, unobstrustive way. How depressing was that?) She liked that he encouraged her taking her time to check all necessary boxes.
She didn't like that he never seemed to sleep, too keyed up on adrenaline, using his therapist as an excuse to keep coming back for more danger. She didn't like that he kept layers of his life tucked away, hidden behind flirtatious jokes and winks and smirks, the pain trapped like a geyser under his skin that he refused to let go. She didn't like how often he visited the roof. She didn't like that she was scared to get too close, for fear of saying too many mean things about his best friend, for fear of him being thrown off by a younger resident latching onto him so hard.
She enjoyed that he would email her journal articles if they were relevant to something she'd mentioned completely off the cuff at handovers. She looked forward to when he'd treat her to shared breakfasts at greasy diners after she pulled double shifts. She appreciated that he, despite his background, did not seem to idolize the military he'd toured under and in fact seemed to harbor a strong well of resentment towards a government that did not care for anyone's lives. She admired that he lived every day under the weight of grief and phantom limb pain and PTSD and anger, and still he kept on living.
She was disappointed that he'd barely reacted when she originally told him she was going to New Jersey for a fellowship. She was frustrated that her hindbrain had decided to make her pulse skyrocket every time he pulled her into one of his incoming traumas, when he was probably just being polite in distributing cases. She despised that he took up TEMS shifts in his free time.
She liked that Dr. Jack Abbot had been in love. She didn't like that he had lost it.
Sometimes Samira thought about that old adage: better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Samira had lost love; she had also never had any romantic love at all. So she had both sides of the coin, and she knew the phrase was right. It was better to have had her father for the short time that she did, than to forever feel the sting of loneliness. She wondered sometimes if Abbot felt the same. If he was grateful for the time he had with his wife, even if it was finite. And she wondered sometimes if he was lonely now too.
She wondered even more if he ever thought about Samira like a case study to explore.
Somewhere along the way, past pigtail catheters and offers to pay for car rides, Samira realized this wasn’t a purely intellectual endeavor anymore. She found herself asking for a fellowship rec not just because she trusted his expertise and opinions, but because she wanted to spend the extra few minutes chatting with him about it. She stopped brewing tea in the break room because she knew Abbot would leave a drink on her desk alongside a sticky-noted printout of a paywalled article. She catalogued when his gait grew more uneven as the hours passed, taking breaks to chat with Lena at the hub, subtly massaging the twinge in his thigh. She grew curious about how he took care of his leg at home. Imagined what his home looked like, what it smelled like, what he wore to bed, whether his farmer's tan had grown more pronounced since she'd patched his wound on the 4th. Found herself cataloging the freckles and veins of his biceps that she could remember, like counting sheep.
But it was just an unfortunate crush; that was all it was. Not enough data points to back up whether he actually felt anything for her beyond a mutual collegial respect, or even whether she felt something beyond that. And besides, there was too much risk involved to even test the theory—she was not jeopardizing her career for the chance to pick the correct petal in a game of "he loves me, he loves me not". If anything were to happen, it would have to wait until she landed on more solid ground, maybe as an attending herself.
Of course, a widowed, veteran, white man fifteen years her senior was not exactly the image she'd envisioned when she laid out her plan to find love after residency. So maybe it was okay that it was just a temporary crush, on a temporary night shift switch, in a temporary city. One day she'd be able to set her real plan for love in motion again.
Samira had been able to get a few precious hours of sleep after clocking out Saturday morning, her day shift companions bemoaning the fact that she got to go on a fun excursion while they had to work ("Hey, if you want to swap places with me and be unable to get through one shift with Dr. Robby without both of you losing your minds, by all means, Trinity, be my guest. Besides, I thought you were happy I switched shifts with Parker," was Samira's response to that).
She spent what felt like for her an unusually long amount of time getting ready for the afternoon, but was probably only twenty minutes. She ended up going with long jean shorts and a little black tank, an oversize linen on top and sunglasses to protect from the mid-August heat. It felt strange getting dressed up to see the people she worked with every day, with whom she'd be on shift later that night. Though maybe it only felt strange because it was so rare for Samira to go out with coworkers at all, save for a couple of movie nights with Mel and beers in the park after hellish shifts.
Shen had been put in charge of distributing the ticket QRs to everyone's emails, not trusting Abbot with the technological responsibility. Samira arrived to PNC Park fifteen minutes before the first pitch, which she thought was a respectable amount of time to get settled and maybe grab a snack, and to calm her nerves down. She knew she was being ridiculous. These were people she saw every day, in their worst states. They did the impossible to save countless lives together. Small talk couldn't be that scary in comparison, right?!
With a box of popcorn and water bottle secured, Samira made her way to the correct seating area. They had a great view by third base, looking out to the city skyline—though Samira couldn't help but wonder just how much these tickets were, and why that money couldn't have been spent on hospital supplies.
She was pleased to note that she'd timed her arrival perfectly. Bridget and Lena and a few of the other nurses had come altogether, but there were still enough open seats that Samira could have her pick of where to sit, opting for a spot towards the end of the row, not in anyone's way.
"Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Dr. Mohan out of the hospital?"
There was that low voice again, coming from behind her.
Samira glanced up to see Abbot leaning on the closest aisle railing. She had to physically stop herself from pulling down her sunglasses to gawk at the muscles practically popping out of his black tee.
Samira attempted to scowl at his words, but she only succeeded in popping her dimples out. "In the flesh."
"That seat taken?" Abbot pointed at the seat next to Samira's where she'd momentarily draped her linen overshirt and purse.
"All yours," Samira said, moving her stuff to make room for him.
Abbot shuffled his way in, and Samira was uncomfortably aware of the fact that if she moved her leg slightly more to the right, their knees would brush. She maintained the distance. She cursed herself for even caring.
"So, we managed to get you to come out with us. Night shift has it perks, yeah?" Abbot smiled at her, striking up conversation.
"Remind me again how many times in the past, I don't know, ten years that the night shift—or any shift for that matter—has been given a perk like this?" Samira said sweetly.
Abbot barked out a laugh. "Well, maybe Gloria sensed that you would need some convincing to stay on nights full time, so she pulled out all the stops for you."
That stopped Samira. "Wait, what?"
Abbot affixed his brown-green stare directly onto Samira, and this time she did take her glasses off, tucking them onto her tank's neckline, for some reason wanting him to see her eyes too. See that she was paying close attention to what he would say next. "I know this was only supposed to be temporary and you'll go back to days once Robby's finally off and Al-Hashimi fully takes over. But it doesn't have to be temporary. I'd—we'd—be lucky to have you for as long as you want. You can stay through the rest of your residency."
Did Abbot know something she didn't? Was Robby never going on his sabbatical, actually, and had enlisted Abbot to poach Samira away so he wouldn't have to deal with her anymore? She felt vaguely ill at the prospect, at the idea of being so exiled from Robby's favor that she was being told to live like a bat for a year.
As if he could read her mind, Abbot continued. "I'm not trying to force you to stay. Listen, Robby and Baran don't even know that I'm asking you this. They know I think you're the best resident we've had in years, and I know Baran and yes, Robby too, would be inclined to agree—" Samira scoffed at that, but Abbot just pushed forward, "—but I don't think they realize just how good you are. So Shen and I have been discussing it and we want you to know that if you want it, we will move mountains for you to have a place among the nightcrawlers."
Samira frowned, biting her lip. Sure, she'd considered it offhandedly. She couldn't say the sleep schedule agreed with her, but the support system of the team, coupled with the way that cases at night unspooled like satisfying puzzles to solve, certainly did.
Samira truly loved working with Dr. Al-Hashimi, feeling a rare degree of comfort and actual mentorship from someone who already knew and trusted her abilities from the past. But she couldn't deny the immovable object that was Robby. Their working relationship was like a stress fracture they both kept walking on: something was going to break.
Robby hadn't ended up going on his long-awaited sabbatical after all. Rumor was he'd finally taken up Abbot and Dana and Dr. Jefferson's offer (demand) to set him up with a new therapist that he wouldn't quit on in a week, and was attempting to sort out his addled mind, with plans to take a real break later in the year. It had resulted in a kind of Cold War in the ED. Robby was taking a small step back from bearing down on students and residents to work alongside Al-Hashimi, but still his lingering created a sense of unease, like he was going to emotionally relapse at any second. Samira couldn't trust his progress yet. Hence, the night shift switch.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot," Samira finally said, realizing she'd been silent for a while. "I appreciate it. I will...think about it."
Abbot tilted his head slightly forward, maintaining eye contact. "I mean it. I'm not just saying that to say it." Samira did know that. If there was one thing she knew about Jack Abbot, had catalogued in her mind, it was that he was unflinchingly honest. Bleeding heart on his sleeve honest, open faced stare honest. Even his hiding was honest: like he was acknowledging there was more to his story, but it had to be unlocked. And she wanted to know more. She honestly did.
"I know. Believe me, I've felt more appreciated on a month of the night shift than I have in three years on the day," Samira let out a mirthless chuckle, finally ducking away from facing Abbot.
He frowned, like he was about to ask further about that somewhat concerning statement, but was interrupted by more of the crew entering their row: Mateo, Crus, Shen. Samira was grateful for the distraction, not wishing to get into why exactly she felt so much more appreciated on night shift with one of the main reasons himself.
Samira had always prided herself on her observant nature. Being overly mindful of when patients need a lending ear more than a medical diagnosis, catching little misses on an ultrasound that would've gone unnoticed if she hadn't taken a second look. Her keen eye had been one of the things that propelled her so far in her career.
It had not, however, helped her in the romance department.
It wasn't like she was completely inexperienced. She'd dated on and off in college and med school, but never anything that serious. She just never wanted to dedicate energy to the process of it, nor did she particularly feel that anyone she dated truly respected her or saw how her mind worked. No one wanted to quiz her on her anatomy flashcards; they shied away from gory stories of the ER; played off Samira's grief over her father as having been years ago; or felt personally offended when she wanted to ease into a relationship and get to know someone first. But she'd long since accepted this; besides, she had bigger things to worry about. Her MCAT scores had to take precedence over scoring a phone number from some guy at a bar.
And okay, maybe she was a little willfully ignorant when it came to being on the receiving end of attention. Didn't pick up on cues that she was being hit on, didn't care to analyze an interaction with an overly friendly patient. Never stopped to consider if the Pitt's head flirt was doing more than his baseline flirting when he stared at her with those piercing eyes. No, she never thought to observe him as anything more than being nice, convinced it was her own pesky feelings clouding their interactions.
Cassie had been trying for months to get Samira to start living a little, go out and meet new people, but Samira didn't understand why she should try to put down roots of relationships in Pittsburgh if that wasn't necessarily going to be her long-term home. Tucked away in the back of her mind was the fear that wherever she headed next, these same problems would follow her around. Maybe she would never be ready.
In the wake of New Jersey no longer being a viable option, Samira cast her fellowship net far and wide. She longed most of all to pick back up on her defunded research project, but she found that once she opened her mind to different possibilities, she could actually find interest in a lot of emergency subspecialties: Ultrasound, Critical Care, Medical Education, Disaster Medicine, even Research, in the hopes of getting her project back one day. She threw Geriatrics on the list as well, but Samira knew herself well enough to know that despite a recent severe crisis of confidence, it wasn't what she wanted for herself.
She'd applied to places all over the country. Hospitals in Pittsburgh, including PTMC, yes, but she wasn't banking on getting in nor was she even angling for that. It was a rare moment in Samira's life where she had to give up a modicum of control, much like when she matched into residency, to see where the chips fell. Freeing in a way, though terrifying.
Amidst the application process, Samira allowed herself rare visions of possible futures. Filled out an application for Cedars-Sinai and planned ideal day trips to Malibu. Interviewed at NYU Langone and imagined the pure anonymity of the subway. Emailed potential mentors at the Mayo Clinic and considered if she could live in subzero temperatures. Visited the Presby campus on her off days and pictured building a real life in the place she'd been half-living for years. Saying yes to plans with soon-to-be former colleagues, going to the coffee shops she drove by in a rush.
She pictured other things, too. Living with a surfer dude in LA, meeting an artsy girl in Brooklyn. Wondered how many years into a new position she would consider having kids, or more likely freezing her eggs, if she ever made enough money to do either. She pictured fulfilling the plan she set out for herself: find job then find love. Job then love. Nice attendings were not in that game plan.
Samira was surprised to find that she was actually having fun at the corporate mandated outing. Shen took a selfie with the whole group and sent it off to Gloria, and then he and Abbot bought a round of stadium beers—before reminding everyone they had to be cut off at the proper time to get ready for shift tonight. It was blazing hot out, a perfect sunny day, and at some point Shen placed his black and gold Pirates cap on Samira's head, for which she was grateful.
While Samira was far more comfortable talking to patients (which she should really analyze about herself one day), it was shockingly easy to talk to everyone, once she got over her initial awkwardness. And not just about medicine or crazy cases they'd seen, but about their lives. Families, hobbies, what they cooked, what movies they watched. Samira was too embarrassed to admit she couldn't contribute much to the conversation, but she liked feeling as though she was still part of it.
It was all going well and good, until the middle of the 7th inning. There was a bit of a lull in the action as the teams switched sides, and a few members of the group got up for more food and refills. Samira and Abbot were left by themselves for the first time since the beginning of the game.
"So, do you go to games often?" Samira asked politely, internally cringing that it sounded vaguely like a pickup line.
If Abbot noticed her slightly recoil, he didn't make a big deal. "Nah, not a ton. Been to a bunch of Steelers games over the years, though this kind of stuff doesn't really gel with the nocturnal schedule. Easier to record a game."
Samira smiled, raising a brow. "And you still claim you want me to join you guys on the dark side?"
Abbot shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a selfish man."
And okay. What did that mean?
As if the universe were conspiring against her, the stadium announcer chose that exact moment to get on the microphone and announce, "IT'S KISS CAM TIME!" Abbot and Samira broke their eye contact, smiling at the absurdity of the cartoon pink and red hearts blinking on the Jumbotron around unsuspecting couples in the crowd.
She abruptly stopped smiling when the next pair on the screen looked eerily familiar...almost like looking in a mirror.
"Oh shit..." Samira heard a voice faintly whisper. She couldn't tell who said it. She couldn't tell because she was stuck watching the horror show in front of her: Jack Abbot and Samira Mohan, caught on 4k, hearts swirling around their heads and her heart beating out of her chest.
Samira silently thanked Shen for giving her the hat earlier, pulling it further down her forehead as she slouched. She wanted to disappear into the surface of the Earth. Samira chuckled awkwardly, shaking her head, as Abbot reached a large arm to scratch behind his neck, both of them silently waiting until the camera operator got bored of them and moved on.
Thankfully, as soon as they were onscreen, they were pulled off it. Evidently, the crowd wanted a bit more action. "Well that was mortifying," Samira said bluntly.
Abbot grinned, seemingly casual, but his pale complexion was on fire, all ruddy cheeks and blushing neck. "Way to make a guy feel special, Mohan."
Samira laughed, the tension immediately easing. Leave it to him to instantly find a way to make her comfortable with a corny joke.
But just as soon as she began to sit back up straight, the unthinkable happened: the camera went back on them.
"C'mon folks, this is a kiss cam! You're supposed to kiss!" The announcer's voice boomed throughout the entire stadium. This was why Samira didn't go out after work, she thought to herself, because somehow, someway, shit like this happened to her.
As Samira pulled down the hat even further, she could see Abbot gesticulating next to her, making a kind of abortive gesture with his hands, as if to say, "No way!" She knew rationally that he was being respectful. Irrationally she had the striking, sudden understanding that her unfortunate crush, her nice attending, did not want her at all.
He loves me not.
To make matters worse, the crowd began to chant all around them: "KISS! KISS! KISS!"
"I'm her boss!" Abbot tried to shout, or rather pantomime, amidst the growing noise. It was no use. The camera would not go away from them.
"Just...kiss my hand or something, I don't know," Samira groaned. "Anything to shut them up."
Abbot turned to Samira with one perfect brow raised. "Are you sure?"
Samira nodded. "Let's just look stupid together."
He grasped her hand in his rough palm and lifted up their interlocked hands as Samira stared at him, doe eyes wide as can be, before he was brushing a barely-there kiss on the back of her knuckles, like he was some brooding romantic hero. Samira gasped infinitesimally at the contact. He then raised their—still connected—hands up in a triumphant gesture, as though he was a ref calling Samira's winning boxing match.
Samira gave him a relieved smile, and joined in on pumping their arms up and down as well. There. Take that, Pirates fans.
The announcer spoke up again. "Alright, I, uh, guess that was a kiss?" This seemed to set off the crowd, who then began booing.
"Oh, come on!" Samira yelled, letting their hands drop.
It was one thing to be publicly humiliated like this, another to have it happen with the one person in all of Pittsburgh who Samira actually felt a crumb of—of something towards. But it was quite another thing entirely for their efforts to go so unappreciated like this. Samira Mohan, top star of patient satisfaction scores, was not pleased.
"Alright, alright, let the people be," the announcer cracked. Finally, another poor couple were placed onscreen. Samira and Abbot both breathed twin sighs of relief.
"Sorry about all this," Abbot said gruffly. "Not really helping the night shift case now, am I?"
"No, it's fine," Samira said. "Honestly I'm just mad now that our efforts have completely gone to waste. I can't believe they were booing us!"
Abbot stared at Samira with the tiniest lift to the side of his mouth, and if she was being generous with herself, she might even say he was looking at her with fondness.
And then right on cue, once again, their faces filled the Jumbotron.
"Third times the charm, right?! Let's get a real kiss!" The announcer boomed, and the crowd cheered louder than ever before.
"Jesus. Shouldn't someone be up at bat by now?" Abbot complained.
Samira felt sick at the prospect of Abbot feeling social pressure to kiss her, just to get the attention off them. She knew he didn't like her like that, and selfishly she didn't want to kiss him in this way either. She wanted it to be real. And until she was faced with the reality that he didn't seem the tiniest ounce excited by the possibility of kissing her, she hadn't realized just how much she wanted it.
"Let's just let it pass," Samira muttered, feeling horribly small.
Abbot stared at her, his top lip curling into a scowl. "No."
"No?"
"No, we're ending this right now. On our terms. Do you trust me?" Samira nodded at Abbot's words. With a determined glint in his eye, Abbot plucked the baseball cap off the top of Samira's head.
"What are you..." Samira's voice trailed off as Abbot held the hat up in front of their faces. He nodded to gesture towards the Jumbotron, where Samira saw that other than the tops of their heads, their faces were now completely concealed by the camera angle. No one could tell what was happening behind the hat. Clever little trick.
"Gloria's gonna have a field day with this one," Abbot grinned, shark teeth slightly poking out.
"Well, this is what she gets for encouraging team bonding," Samira whispered breathlessly, noting they had drifted slightly closer behind the protection of the hat. "So how do we play this? Sit back here for a couple seconds and then hope for cheers when the hat drops?" She could sense the anticipation in the crowd, like everyone had taken a collective breath and was waiting to see what would happen next.
"You tell me, Dr. Mohan," Abbot tilted his head, like a puppy. His words reminded Samira of trauma procedures and implicit trust.
Samira bit her lip. She couldn't tell if she imagined his eyes drifting slightly downwards at the movement. "I think we have to sell it. Maybe..." she took a chance and closed the gap between them even further, then peeked quickly at the screen to see what they looked like. "Like that?"
Abbot made a little humming noise, as if he was disagreeing. "Hmm. I don't know if that'll do."
Without breaking eye contact, Abbot leaned just that much closer to Samira, so the halos of their curls brushed against each other. Their foreheads practically touched. Faintly, Samira registered the roar of the crowd rising with the movement, but it all sounded muffled, like they were the only people in the whole stadium. Two deep breaths, four wide eyes.
"Dr. Abbot, don't do something you think you'll regret." Samira tried to let him off the hook.
"I'm not going to kiss you like this, don't worry. You deserve more than that. So much more." Before Samira could interrogate Abbot's strangely earnest words, and the sudden intensity of his gaze, he continued, explaining, "But people will see what they want to, yeah?"
The air felt taut with what ifs: what if they both leaned in a bit further? What if their noses bumped, what if they bridged the gap between their lips? What if they both wanted something more?
Samira didn't know what to do with her hands, folded in her lap. She didn't know what to do with her heart, beating so wildly she would've called for an EKG if she were a patient. And most of all, she didn't know what to do with the look that Abbot—no, this was Jack—was giving her. Like he could see completely inside of her, see her every wounded part and bleeding, desperate heart and aching desire in her lungs and steady determination thrumming in her veins. Or like he wanted to take his own heart from his chest cavity and give it to her for safekeeping.
"Jack." Samira breathed.
The arm holding up the cap wavered slightly while the other flexed, clutched onto the metal armrest between their seats. His lashes fluttered just barely before darkened eyes were staring back at hers again, brows slightly furrowed, normally stony composure slightly askew. "Samira," Jack echoed. He never called her that. "I..."
"What?" Samira dared to whisper.
Jack gave her one of his trademark, heartbreaker smirks, curling the sides of his mouth. But this time, there was something deeper laced in his expression. "I think you know."
And with a flash of clarity, she did.
In a split second, Samira rapidly recalibrated the results of her Dr. Jack Abbot Case Study, retracing the contours of their workplace dynamic. Recalling every time he complimented her on an intubation or defended her pace or drove her home after shift or respected her opinions or brushed his hand against hers for longer than he should when he handed her a scalpel. Every time he told her what he was thinking about her without saying anything.
He loves me.
She knew she wasn't supposed to care so much. (That was Robby's common critique of her, after all.) But there was nothing Samira Mohan loved more than interpreting new data, and this had cracked the case wide open.
Though one might also argue that this—whatever this nebulous thing hovering between Jack and Samira was—went beyond any scientific reason.
Samira inched one of her hands to rest on the barrier between them, right next to his. She brushed her pinky against his just barely, keeping up the same plausible deniability as the distance between their faces.
Samira took a breath and said, "I feel it too." She paused, before asking, distressingly vulnerable, "Why do you...?"
"Samira. How could I not?" Jack admitted, so casual and yet so deeply, heartachingly sincere. It was as if he was saying that his feelings for Samira were inevitable. Like she was the moon and he was the tide, inexorably breaking against the shore in the face of her. How could he not?
Jack's eyes darted around every detail of her face, bobbing his head slightly. The movement jostled Samira's hair. The crowd behind them screamed at the motion of their heads, shaking them both out of their trances.
"I think we've sold it," Samira said lowly.
"I think so," Jack echoed.
Yet, neither of them were in a rush to move from behind their hiding spot, their little secret space. It was more intimate than a kiss could ever be.
Jack slowly, very slowly, lowered the hat in front of them, but continued to look in her eyes as he did. Samira could hear the announcer booming something cheeky ("Now that's what I call a kiss! Took your sweet time too! Now folks...let's play ball!") but she just gave a dimpled smile, no longer feeling the sting of embarrassment. Only the crystalline, pure feeling of being known.
"Hey guys, what'd we miss?" Shen's voice was what finally interrupted Jack and Samira's staring contest, the pair of them jumping backwards in their seats as the other attending leaned over them, shuffling back into the row.
"Sounded crazy out here, feels like we missed a big play or something!" Mateo said, following behind Shen.
"No, no. Nothing yet." Jack grinned, casting a sideways glance at Samira. "But there's hope for something more one day."
Samira Mohan believes in the healing power of love. She believes in the importance of caring for her patients at all stages of their lives and illnesses, in advocating for the underrepresented and using medicine as a force for good. She believes it is equally important to respect someone's humanity as it is to treat them physically and she believes in her capabilities as a doctor to do so.
She gives love away every single day to every single person she treats in the Pitt. She is practically bursting at the seams with it.
She is still learning she is worthy of getting that love back in return. From herself, by finding the right fellowship path. From others around her, by taking them up on offers of companionship. From a salt-and-peppered crush who truly sees her, and who she sees in return.
So yes, Samira Mohan believes in love. And she is ready to find it.