Hearts. People see them as a symbol of love—romantic, sentimental, a thing of poetry and metaphors. Cristina sees them for what they really are: a muscle. A function. A piece of biology that keeps people alive.
For her and Burke, the heart isn't some grand symbol of devotion. It's precision. It's control. It's something they can fix. It's one of the few things they have in common.
And yet, as much as Cristina tries to avoid Burke, and more importantly, the coffee debt she refuses to acknowledge fate seems to have a twisted sense of humor.
Because here they are. Again.
The trauma bay doors slammed open, the force of it sending a gust of stale hospital air past her.
"Thirty-five-year-old male, MVC, blunt chest trauma. BP's dropping, pulse weak. Possible cardiac tamponade," a paramedic rattled off.
Cristina didn't hesitate. She was already moving, slipping on gloves, adrenaline snapping her into focus.
Burke was beside her. "Get him to the OR now," he ordered, voice steady, composed.
Cristina kept pace, barely a step behind. "Tamponade could be from pericardial bleeding. We should get imaging before we—"
"No time," Burke cut in. Not sharp, not dismissive—just certain. Like he had already decided this five minutes ago, like he had seen the whole damn surgery in his head before she even opened her mouth. "If we wait, he won't make it."
She hated when he was right.
The OR was a symphony of movement, the kind of chaos that only made sense to the people standing in it. The beeping monitors, the hum of the ventilator, the sterile scent of antiseptic—it was all background noise to the real task at hand.
The patient's heart was struggling, its rhythm weak, faltering under the weight of the blood pooling around it. The moment Burke made the incision, the pericardium released a dark rush of fluid, spilling over onto the drapes.
Cristina was already there with suction, clearing the field, her hands steady, her mind calculating. "We need to find the source."
Burke's eyes tracked the heart, searching. "There," he murmured, pointing with his forceps. "Right atrial tear."
Cristina exhaled sharply. Small. Deep. A nightmare to repair.
She met his gaze. And for once, there was no challenge between them. No one-upping. No silent battle of egos. Just understanding.
"I'll hold the field," she said.
Burke gave the smallest nod. "Stay ahead on suction."
They moved in sync, a rhythm as natural as the heartbeat they were trying to save. Cristina could anticipate his next move before he made it. Burke adjusted his technique without having to ask.
Trust.
That was what this was.
Not the grudging, I'll-tolerate-you-because-I-have-to kind of trust. But something deeper, something sharper. The kind that meant she could let go of her own control—just for a second—and know that he wouldn't fail.
The OR clock ticked forward, each passing second measured by the faint, weak rhythm of their patient's heart.
Burke's hands were impossibly steady as he placed the final stitch.
And then—there it was. The moment of silence. The waiting.
The heart, once weak and struggling, found its beat again.
Strong. Steady. Alive.
Cristina let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Burke sat back slightly, watching the monitors as if daring them to contradict him.
They didn't.
The tension in the room shifted, the controlled urgency dissipating, replaced by something else. Relief. Victory. That familiar, unspoken understanding between them.
"Good work," Burke said finally, breaking the quiet.
Cristina didn't answer right away. She was still watching the heart. Watching it do exactly what it was supposed to do. Not because of fate. Not because of luck. Because they had made it so.
She scrubbed out quickly, peeling off her gloves, the adrenaline still buzzing under her skin. Outside the OR, she leaned back against the wall, pressing her fingers to her temples.
The weight of it hit her then. Not the surgery, not the patient—just the realization that she had been here before. In this exact moment. Doing the exact same thing.
Only last time, she had been looking at him. And she hated that. She hated looking at him. She hated that she likes looking at him.
"I mean who wouldn't" she muttered into the empty hallway, as if saying it out loud would somehow justify it. As if it made her any less guilty.
But denial was only useful if it stayed convincing, and right now, hers was falling apart.
Because wherever she went, there was Burke.
Not in some cosmic, fate-driven way—not in a way she'd ever admit—but in a way that was impossible to ignore.
He was always there. In the OR, in the hallways, in the way her eyes had learned to find him without thinking. In the way his presence registered in her mind before she even saw him.
She watched him now, across the hall, sleeves still rolled up from surgery. He was speaking to a resident, calm, composed—commanding without effort. The way his fingers adjusted his glasses when an intern screwed up. The way his voice never wavered, even when chaos surrounded them.
And then there was the way his dimple—God, that damn dimple appeared when he smiled.
She hated that too.
And it was his fault. For always showing up.
Cristina exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
She thought back to the surgery. To the rush of it, the precision, the way they moved as if they had rehearsed it a thousand times. She didn't have to second-guess, didn't have to adjust because they just worked.
And that was the problem.
She knew how they worked together. And worse?
So did he.
And that? That was entirely his fault.
She turned sharply, eyes locking onto Burke across the hallway.
His sleeves were still rolled up from surgery, his posture composed, effortless, like he hadn't just walked out of a high-stakes operation. The hospital moved around them, interns rushing past, nurses exchanging quick instructions, but he remained steady. Always steady. Always there.
Cristina squared her shoulders and closed the distance between them. "You knew I'd be there."
Burke didn't even blink. "I expected it."
His voice was calm, assured. A statement of fact rather than assumption.
Cristina crossed her arms, studying him. "There's a difference."
Burke tilted his head slightly. "Is there?"
His tone was unreadable, but there was something behind it—something deliberate.
Cristina exhaled through her nose. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That thing," she said, irritation creeping into her voice. "Where you act like you know something I don't."
Burke's mouth twitched, almost like he was amused. "I don't have to act."
Cristina clenched her jaw. He was impossible. Infuriating. And the worst part? He wasn't wrong.
"We work at the same hospital, Cristina," he added smoothly. "Running into each other? That's not fate. That's just logistics."
Logical. Rational. Just like him.
But it didn't feel that simple. Not when she found herself noticing him before she even meant to. Not when their paths kept crossing in ways that felt too precise to be accidental.
"You're here," he continued, eyes steady on hers. "So tell me—was it a choice?"
Cristina opened her mouth, then hesitated.
Because the truth?
She wasn't sure anymore.