It had rained the night before.
The grass at the cemetery was damp, soft beneath her boots, and the wind still smelled faintly of wet stone and earth.
Elizabeth stood in front of Mark's headstone, coat pulled tight, arms wrapped around herself. She hadn't come in weeks. Not because she forgot. But because the words were getting harder to find.
"I kissed her," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
No preamble. No apology. Just the truth, dropped like a confession into the silence.
The wind rustled in reply.
She looked down at the bouquet in her hands, she laid them beside the stone, careful not to disturb the ones already there—Susan's offering from earlier that week.
"She talks about you," Elizabeth said softly. "Tells stories like they still belong to you. Like she never stopped being your friend."
Her voice trembled.
"She makes Ella laugh," she added, her throat tightening. "She makes me laugh. I didn't know I could still do that."
She crouched, fingers grazing the edge of the stone. Cold. Smooth. Familiar.
"I don't know what this is," she whispered. "What it means. If it's anything. But I know that when she's around… the ache isn't so loud."
A pause. Then, with a bitter smile: "And I hate her for that. For making it easier."
She closed her eyes.
"I think you would've understood."
The wind picked up again. Just enough to feel like a presence. Not an answer—never that. But something that made her believe, just for a second, that Mark wasn't entirely gone.
She stood slowly, brushing her hands clean on her coat.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted, "but if you can see this—see me—I hope you don't hate me for it."
She left the cemetery feeling lighter and heavier all at once.
And when her phone buzzed with a message from Susan—
"Still thinking about yesterday. No pressure, but… if you want to talk, I'm here."
Elizabeth didn't respond right away. But her thumb hovered over the reply button for a long, long time.
Weaver's attending meetings were never fun.
That morning, they were excruciating.
Elizabeth was late—thanks to Ella refusing to put on shoes and a surgical intern nearly flooding an OR sink—and when she finally slipped into the conference room, every seat was taken.
Except one.
Next to Susan.
Of course it was.
Susan glanced up when she entered. A flicker of something unreadable passed between them—surprise, warmth, hesitation—but her expression settled quickly into that signature smirk. The one she used when baiting Weaver. The one Elizabeth had once found infuriating. Now it made her throat dry.
She sat down, stiffly, carefully. Too aware.
Susan's perfume was subtle but impossible to ignore—fresh, clean, with a hint of something floral. Elizabeth didn't know the name, but she knew it now by association. By the memory of Susan's skin, her warmth.
Susan leaned back in her chair like she owned the room.
"Dr. Lewis," Weaver snapped, "do you intend to contribute today, or are you just here to offer commentary?"
"Oh, commentary," Susan said cheerfully. "Always. But I'll throw in a solution or two if things get too grim."
A few snorts from the back of the room. Carter grinned.
Elizabeth stared ahead, jaw tight, hands clenched in her lap.
Because the woman next to her—sarcastic, insufferably confident, recklessly charming—was a completely different Susan than the one who had kissed her with trembling hands two nights ago.
But then, Susan's knee brushed hers under the table.
Barely a touch. But not accidental.
Elizabeth's breath caught in her chest.
She said nothing.
But her entire body remembered.
They bumped into each other near the elevators later, between consults.
Literally.
Elizabeth turned the corner too fast, chart in hand, and collided into Susan, who caught her instinctively with both hands.
"Well," Susan said, eyes bright. "That's one way to say hello."
Elizabeth flushed, stepping back. "Sorry. I wasn't—watching."
"I noticed." Susan tilted her head. "You doing okay?"
"Fine," Elizabeth said, too quickly. "Busy."
Susan nodded, pretending to believe her. Then:
"Lunch? Magoo's? I promise not to traumatize you with disco fries."
Elizabeth hesitated.
Susan leaned in, voice lower. Softer.
"I know things are weird. Doesn't mean they have to be bad."
That smile—that maddening, open, kind smile—almost undid her.
Elizabeth looked around the hall like she was expecting someone to interrupt. "Alright. Lunch."
Susan's smile widened. "Twelve-thirty?"
Elizabeth nodded, already walking away before her composure could falter. But Susan saw it.
She saw everything.
Magoo's was half-empty and smelled like grease and overcooked fries.
Susan loved it.
Elizabeth… tolerated it.
They sat at their usual booth near the window—Susan with a Diet Coke, Elizabeth with her surgical coffee blend that Susan claimed tasted like regret.
"So," Susan said, peeling the paper off her straw with flair, "is this a date we're pretending isn't a date, or just two extremely attractive, emotionally complex women sharing fries?"
Elizabeth smirked, sipping her coffee. "I'd hardly call this a date. The table's sticky."
Susan leaned in. "You didn't say no to attractive."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, but her lips curved. "God, you're relentless."
Susan grinned. "You're not denying that either."
"Do you ever stop?"
"Never. It's part of my charm. You should see the warning label."
Elizabeth took a fry, eyes flicking up under her lashes. "I'm surprised it doesn't come with a waiver."
"Oh, it does. Small print. Right after 'kiss at your own risk.'"
Elizabeth nearly choked on her coffee and set it down with a clatter. "Jesus."
Susan looked far too pleased with herself. "There she is. I missed the look you get when you're regretting all your choices."
Elizabeth wiped her mouth and narrowed her eyes. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," Susan said, resting her chin on her hand, "you're still here."
That stopped Elizabeth.
For a second, the smirk dropped. Her gaze softened, and she looked down at her hands.
"I haven't done this in years," she said quietly. "Lunch. Talking. Letting someone in."
Susan's smile faded, gentled. "Yeah?"
Elizabeth nodded, voice low. "After Mark, there wasn't… space for it. I didn't want it. I barely survived it."
Susan didn't rush in with a joke. She just let the silence land softly.
"I get it," she said after a moment. "You've been carrying too much for too long. Letting go feels like weakness."
Elizabeth glanced at her, something raw in her eyes.
"But it's not," Susan added. "It's brave. You're brave."
Elizabeth looked at her for a long time. Then, with a reluctant tilt of her mouth: "You're still insufferable."
Susan grinned. "But charming."
Elizabeth sighed. "Unfortunately."
And then, quieter, almost to herself: "But yes. This is a date."
Susan blinked. "What?"
Elizabeth took another fry. "You heard me."
Susan beamed so hard, it was embarrassing.
Elizabeth just sipped her coffee again, like she hadn't just shifted the ground beneath them.
The ER was a goddamn zoo.
They were short-staffed, Weaver was MIA in a board meeting, and Susan was the only attending on shift. Interns swarmed like confused ducklings, med students hovered with clipboards and terrified expressions, and she was three consults behind when the wheezing patient in Curtain 4 suddenly spiraled.
She got to him in time—barely.
Misdiagnosed angioedema. Airway compromised. No time for anesthesia. No backup. No hesitation.
She opened his neck with the kind of confidence that came from knowing she was right, her fingers steady, eyes sharp, voice calm as she barked orders like a one-woman army.
Elizabeth pushed into Trauma 2 just as Susan slid the tube into place.
For a second, Elizabeth just stood there, blinking.
"You started a cricothyrotomy alone?"
Susan didn't look up. "I know a trick or two."
Elizabeth's eyes gleamed—impressed and exasperated all at once—and she took over, ordering the patient prepped for surgery, already calling upstairs.
As they wheeled him out, Abby sidled up to Susan, arms crossed.
"I can't believe you're flirting mid-trauma."
Susan shot her a look. "I wasn't flirting."
Abby raised an eyebrow. "Sure. And I'm not chain-smoking in the ambulance bay."
Susan muttered something under her breath and grabbed a chart, cheeks warm, heart thrumming.
Susan was halfway through a chart when she heard the determined steps behind her. She didn't need to look up to know who it was.
Elizabeth Corday.
She waited for it.
"You can't just go cowboy style in the trauma room," Elizabeth said, low and clipped, arms folded, eyes sharp.
Susan looked up, already bracing. "The patient was crashing, Elizabeth. I wasn't exactly going to wait for someone to page thoracic."
"You still have to call surgery down for a cricothyrotomy."
"It was clean," Susan said, voice calm, but her chin tilted in that impossible, infuriating way. "You know it."
Elizabeth's jaw twitched. She stepped closer. Her voice dropped, no longer for the ER to hear.
"I've seen surgeons do a crappier job," she said, quiet and begrudgingly sincere.
Susan gave her that smile—that insufferable, smug, entirely too charming smile that made Elizabeth feel like her blood was carbonated.
"I live to impress," Susan murmured.
And then it hit—like a wave between them. That invisible current that had been pulling, tightening, rising since the moment they first started colliding in these halls.
They stood too close. Said nothing. Just looked at each other, eyes locked, and the silence between them became so thick it felt physical.
A resident, standing nearby with a chart, actually took a step back.
Susan didn't even notice.
She just held Elizabeth's gaze, all the exhaustion and adrenaline and feeling boiling under her skin.
Elizabeth's mouth parted like she was going to say something—but she didn't.
And Susan… she just stood there, caught.
Breathing.
Waiting.
"This," Susan said, eyeing the linen napkin in her lap like it might bite her, "is the fanciest damn napkin I've ever met."
Elizabeth smirked across the candlelit table. "You said I owed you dinner. I'm simply delivering on a promise. Properly."
Susan leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine with mock seriousness. "You trying to intimidate me with ambiance, Dr. Corday?"
Elizabeth sipped her sauvignon blanc and tilted her head. "Is it working?"
Susan grinned. "Absolutely not."
The restaurant was quiet but not stiff—dim lighting, soft jazz, waitstaff who seemed to appear just before you realized you needed them. It was the kind of place Elizabeth came to alone sometimes, when the silence of her apartment felt too loud.
Tonight, though, it felt… different.
Susan was wearing a black button-down, sleeves rolled casually, a tiny chain around her neck that caught the light just so. Her hair was down, a little messy like she'd half-committed to elegance and then decided to be herself instead.
And she was flirting.
Shamelessly.
"I once dated a guy who took me to a Red Lobster for our one-month anniversary," Susan said, popping a piece of bruschetta into her mouth. "Ordered clam chowder and proposed during dessert."
Elizabeth blinked. "You're kidding."
"I wish I was. I said no, obviously. But I took the ring. Pawned it for a year's worth of tequila."
Elizabeth choked on her wine.
Susan gave her a mock-innocent look. "What?"
Elizabeth wiped her mouth delicately with that unnecessarily starched napkin. "You're impossible."
"And yet, here we are."
Elizabeth smiled despite herself. "You're very different outside the hospital."
Susan's voice lowered, teasing but honest. "And how am I here?"
Elizabeth looked at her—really looked. The way her eyes gleamed when she laughed, the flash of vulnerability behind her jokes, the sheer presence of her.
"Alive," she said, surprising even herself.
Susan's smile softened. "You too."
They sat in that quiet for a moment—no noise but clinking glass and distant conversation.
Then Elizabeth said, "When I was seventeen, my father tried to marry me off to the son of a business associate."
Susan blinked. "That's the most British thing I've ever heard."
"I wore combat boots under the dress."
Susan laughed, her whole face lighting up. "Of course you did."
Elizabeth's smile faltered slightly. "I didn't know who I was supposed to be then. Sometimes I think I still don't."
Susan reached across the table—slowly, giving her space—and brushed the backs of her fingers over Elizabeth's knuckles.
"You're someone I want to get to know," she said, soft. Sincere.
Elizabeth looked down at their hands.
Subtext? No. This was text now.
Clear, real, and terrifying.
And… she was loving it.
The air outside the restaurant was cool, kissed with spring.
Elizabeth walked beside Susan in silence for a moment, heels clicking against the pavement, her coat draped over one arm. Susan had offered hers—of course she had—but Elizabeth had waved her off with a smirk and a, "Don't ruin the silhouette."
Susan had nearly tripped on the curb.
Now, they strolled like they had nowhere to be, their steps somehow falling in sync. Hands brushing occasionally, like an accidental rhythm neither of them wanted to break.
"You're quiet," Susan said, glancing over.
Elizabeth shrugged, her eyes forward. "I'm thinking."
"Dangerous."
Elizabeth gave her a sideways look. "About how I can't believe I brought you to a place with actual silverware."
Susan grinned. "I behaved."
"You tried to charm the waiter into a free dessert."
"I succeeded." Susan wiggled her brows. "Admit it. You're impressed."
Elizabeth bit back a smile. "I'm something."
They stopped at the front steps of Elizabeth's brownstone, the glow of the porch light casting long shadows across the sidewalk.
Susan turned to face her fully. Hands in her coat pockets. Eyes steady.
Elizabeth held her gaze.
This time, no interruptions.
No child stirring in the next room.
No grief between them like a wall they were too polite to climb.
Just now.
And want.
And choice.
Elizabeth stepped closer, her voice low. "Do you want to come up?"
Susan's brow lifted slightly. "You sure?"
Elizabeth nodded once. "I don't want to hesitate anymore."
Susan's smile came slow, wicked, and so gentle all at once. "Then lead the way, Corday."