It hit her one afternoon in the hallway.
Elizabeth had just handed Ella off to Susan—again. A quick drop-off, like always, rushed and clinical, but this time she lingered. Just long enough to watch Susan crouch down, arms open, grin blooming like spring.
"Hey there, sunshine," Susan beamed, scooping Ella into her arms. "Missed me already, huh?"
Ella giggled, small hands in Susan's curls, and Susan laughed—full-throated, unfiltered. Nurses nearby smiled. Abby made some dry remark. Susan fired back without missing a beat, sarcastic and charming all at once.
Elizabeth stood frozen, suddenly aware.
She's using her daughter to see Susan.
The thought sat heavy in her chest. Uncomfortable. Undeniable.
She told herself it was practical. Susan was trustworthy, good with children, always around. It was convenient.
But deep down, she knew better.
There were other people she could ask. But she kept calling Susan.
Why?
Because Susan lit up when she saw Ella. Because she always asked how Elizabeth was doing with a quiet kind of understanding no one else offered. Because Susan saw through the performance.
And—God help her—because when Susan smiled like that, so open, so alive, something in Elizabeth twisted.
Why am I noticing this woman's smile?
At work, Susan was fire.
She bantered with Weaver like she had nothing to lose. She challenged orders when she knew she was right and backed them up with instinct that came from years in trauma and raw, unflinching empathy. People listened when Susan spoke—even when they didn't want to.
Elizabeth watched, at first out of habit, then out of something else.
Maybe fascination.
Maybe envy.
Maybe… something she wasn't ready to name.
Elizabeth couldn't remember when exactly the walls began to shift. It wasn't dramatic. No grand revelation. Just… small changes.
Lingering longer after dropping off Ella.
Making excuses to check in after Susan's consults.
Watching her—noticing her. The way her laugh softened when she was tired. The way her hands stilled when she was worried. The way she seemed to carry the exact same hollow place that Elizabeth hadn't been able to fill.
Susan sees it too, she realized. That absence. That shape he left behind.
And maybe—just maybe—that's why she kept coming back.
It started with a bad night.
Too many traumas. A failed resuscitation on a teenager that left even Weaver wordless. By the end of the shift, Elizabeth looked like she might shatter if anyone touched her.
Susan didn't touch her. Not right away.
But she followed her into the empty attending lounge and stood quietly, watching as Elizabeth unpinned her hair with shaking fingers.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Susan asked.
Elizabeth shook her head. "I just needed to breathe somewhere that didn't smell like blood and antiseptic."
Susan nodded. "I get that."
There was a silence that should've been awkward—but it wasn't.
And then, suddenly, Elizabeth was in her arms.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't romantic. It was just—need.
Susan didn't hesitate. She wrapped her arms around her, grounding her, holding her tighter than she'd meant to.
Elizabeth buried her face in Susan's shoulder, not crying but near it. Her whole body was rigid, like she didn't know how to do this. Like she hadn't let herself be held since—
Susan inhaled the scent of her shampoo, felt the brush of her breath against her neck, and cursed herself.
Don't feel this. Not here. Not her. Not Mark's—
But she did. A flicker of warmth. Of comfort. Of want.
Not the desperate kind. The aching kind.
The kind she hadn't let herself feel in a long time.
Elizabeth didn't pull away. Not immediately. And when she finally did, she lingered—hands still on Susan's arms, eyes unreadable.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "That was…"
Susan offered a small, wry smile. "Unexpected?"
Elizabeth huffed out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "Yes. That."
Susan stepped back—just enough to be polite. Just enough to breathe.
"You're allowed to lean on people, you know," she said softly.
Elizabeth met her gaze.
They stood there, in the hush of shared sorrow and something not-quite-named, something tender and dangerous.
And when Elizabeth left the room, Susan stood frozen, heart thudding, chastising herself the whole time.
Get a grip, Lewis. She's grieving. You're grieving. This is not the time to feel…
But she did.
God help her—she did.
"It's not a date," Susan said, holding up a paper bag like it was proof.
Elizabeth eyed it suspiciously. "You brought popcorn and plastic wine glasses."
"It's sparkling apple cider," Susan said with mock indignation. "What kind of monster do you take me for?"
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, arms crossed as they stood in front of the old planetarium in Lincoln Park.
"It's a Saturday," Susan added. "You're not on call. Ella's with your nanny. You've been actively not enjoying life for approximately… ten months."
Elizabeth glared. "That's a rather bold diagnosis, Doctor Lewis."
Susan grinned. "Consider this a prescribed dose of harmless absurdity."
Elizabeth sighed but followed her inside.
They watched a laser show set to Queen. Kids squealed, teenagers giggled. Susan leaned over halfway through "Bohemian Rhapsody" and whispered, "This is the gayest thing I've ever dragged a British widow to."
Elizabeth burst out laughing—so suddenly, so loudly—that the usher gave them a warning glance. Her cheeks flushed with mirth, hand flying to her mouth.
"I can't believe you brought me to this."
Susan sipped from her plastic wine glass. "Hey. Mark always said I was an acquired taste. I'm just testing your tolerance."
Elizabeth shook her head, still smiling. "You're ridiculous."
"You're welcome."
They sat on the grass outside afterward, shoes off, the city humming in the background.
The sun hit Susan's face just right—turning her hair into light, her eyes into something impossibly green. It made Elizabeth blink.
It's just the daylight, she told herself. Just loneliness. Just nostalgia. Just—
"I used to drive Mark insane when we were residents," Susan said, eyes on the sky. "I once hid his scrubs in the ceiling tiles. He got paged to a code in a towel.
Elizabeth blinked, then burst out laughing again.
Susan smiled at the sound. "He never really got mad at me. Just… exasperated. He had that puppy-dog sigh, you know? Like, 'Why do I like you if you're such a pain in the ass?'"
Elizabeth looked at her then—really looked at her. There was something in the way Susan spoke of him. Not regret. Not longing. Just… love. Familiar and unselfish.
"He admired you," Elizabeth said quietly. "Always did."
Susan glanced at her, softened. "He loved you."
Elizabeth didn't reply. She didn't need to. The silence said enough.
After a while, she murmured, "I haven't laughed like that in a long time."
Susan bumped her shoulder gently. "You're welcome again."
That night, Elizabeth lay in bed and thought about the way Susan had looked in the sun. About her voice, her stories, her laugh.
It's not attraction, she told herself.
It's not a date.
But still—something in her chest felt just a little less heavy.
And maybe, just maybe, she was starting to want the next Saturday to come a little faster.
Abby found Susan outside by the ambulance bay, jacket thrown over her scrubs, legs stretched out on the cold bench. A coffee in one hand, the other tucked into her coat pocket.
Abby lit a cigarette and squinted at her. "So…"
Susan looked up. "So?"
"You and Corday."
Susan gave her a half-smile. "What about us?"
Abby raised an eyebrow. "Since when are you guys friends? I thought she hated you. She used to look at you like you were some sort of bacteria on Mark's shoe."
Susan snorted, sipping her coffee. "I thought so too. I don't know. It just… happened."
Abby waited, smoke curling around her.
"She's alone," Susan added softly. "With Ella. Mark's gone, and… she's holding it together by, like, a thread. And I see her. I see that."
Abby looked at her a moment, then nodded. "You're being a good friend."
Susan looked surprised at the simplicity of it. "Thanks. But you're still my ER BFF. Don't get jealous."
Abby smirked. "Never."
—-
Meanwhile, Elizabeth had overheard them.
Not the whole conversation—just enough.
She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but hearing Susan's voice through the half-open staff room door always made her pause. It was ridiculous. Unsettling, how Susan could make people laugh with no effort, how everyone gravitated toward her like she radiated some kind of warmth no one could resist.
And Elizabeth… noticed.
She noticed when Susan walked into the room. She noticed when she laughed with Chen and Abby about planning a night out, tossing her hair and joking about how long it'd been since she wore eyeliner.
She noticed the way it made something sour twist inside her.
Jealousy? Was that it?
She hated the word. Hated the feeling. She'd been raised to keep her emotions in a chokehold—elegant, composed, untouchable. Feelings were things you managed, not indulged.
But that didn't explain why her stomach dropped at the thought of Susan out somewhere, laughing at someone else's jokes.
So instead, Elizabeth focused on what she could control.
The next trauma came in—a multi-vehicle pile-up. Elizabeth was at the head, Susan at the side. There was chaos, but Susan was calm. Anticipating every move, every instrument Elizabeth needed, finishing her sentences, reading her mind.
Like dancing, Elizabeth thought, like we've done this forever.
It should have unnerved her.
Instead, it made her feel seen.
"I'm cooking tonight," Susan said casually, leaning against the nurses' station with a stack of charts in her arms. "Figured I'd make something Ella might actually eat. You can come too. If you want."
Elizabeth glanced up from her own charting, trying not to smile too obviously. "Is that an invitation?"
Susan grinned. "It's pasta with cartoon-shaped noodles. Come for the ambiance, stay for the early bedtime."
Elizabeth smiled, warm and uncontrollable. "I'll bring wine."
Later that day, Susan was in rare form. Cavalier, sharp-tongued, breezing through the ER like she owned the place. She fielded Weaver's micromanaging with her signature smirk and a tone that danced on the edge of insubordination—charming and deeply irritating, depending on who you were.
Most of the staff adored her. Randi called her "the ER's serotonin boost." Even Malik smiled more when Susan was around.
And Elizabeth… noticed.
Why am I noticing this? she thought, watching Susan laugh with Chuny near the vending machine. Why do I care who she's charming today?
She barely had time to ponder before Romano cornered her outside Curtain 3.
"Corday," he said, deadpan. "Just checking—are you permanently reassigned to the ER, and no one told me?"
Elizabeth didn't miss a beat. "Not unless you've suddenly become chief of scheduling."
He snorted. "Could've fooled me."
She rolled her eyes and walked off, but something about his question lingered.
The place smelled like garlic and warm tomatoes. Ella was in the living room, watching a movie while Susan stirred sauce in the kitchen. Elizabeth hovered by the counter, glass of wine in hand, her posture just a little too straight.
"Safe zone," Susan said with a grin, pointing to a stool. "Sit. Relax. You're off-duty."
"I don't really relax," Elizabeth murmured, but sat anyway.
They slipped into their usual rhythm. Talking about the ER. Ella's sleep regression. And then, naturally, Mark.
"I still think about what he'd say to all this," Susan said. "Probably something annoying and deeply wise."
Elizabeth smirked, eyes soft. "He always had that unfortunate talent."
Silence stretched, quiet and comfortable.
Then Elizabeth said, too casually, "Are you seeing anyone?"
Susan laughed, a dry little puff. "God, no. I'm doomed. I always attract the weird ones. One guy cried during Sex and the City. Not even a sad episode."
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "Tragic."
"I'm not really looking," Susan added, softer now. "I don't know… I think I'm just tired. People come and go. I don't want to build another house of cards."
Before Elizabeth could say anything, Ella toddled over, half-asleep, and crawled into Susan's lap with the absolute certainty of a child who knew she was loved.
Susan held her instinctively, rocking her gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
And Elizabeth watched them like her chest was being cracked open.
"You're so good to her," she whispered. Then, quieter still: "To us."
Susan looked at her, green eyes catching hers, steady and unflinching.
"You're not alone."
Elizabeth felt something twist inside her—something heavy and half-buried, the kind of weight she wasn't used to sharing.
She looked away. "I don't mean to burden you."
Susan's voice was gentle. "You're not."
And the silence between them changed again—richer, charged, intimate.
Elizabeth wanted to say something, anything—but instead, she just stayed.
Because maybe for once… staying was enough.