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It slipped his mind, really. The sweatshirt.
Between the commotion. Transporting the guy back and forth to Presby. Robby being one bad case away from disappearing on sabbatical for good. And the fact that his shoulder still burned no matter how well Samira patched it up.
Dr. Mohan. How well Dr. Mohan patched it up.
They were two different people in his mind. They had to be. It was the only way he could make it through a shift without short-circuiting every time she spoke. The only way he could stand two feet away from her at a trauma bay and not melt under the weight of her attention.
Dr. Mohan is sharp. Quick. Insanely intelligent. Compassionate, but with a drive that makes people straighten up and listen when she walks into a room. Dr. Mohan is who you want for the impossible cases. The complicated cases and the complicated people.
Samira is soft.
She’s warm in a way the hospital never is. She sends you stupid videos at three in the morning because she “couldn’t sleep and this made her laugh.” She sits on park benches long after the streetlights come on, and the noise fizzles out.. She buries her face in her hands when things get too heavy and, for reasons he still doesn’t understand, she lets him see it.
Dr. Mohan patched up his shoulder.
But it’s Samira he’s staring at now across the waiting room. Her eyes distant, scared, unfocused,
It’s Samira who’s being convinced by fax-machine girl—whom he thinks is ironically named Joy—to sit in a wheelchair.
And it’s Samira who suddenly presses a hand to her chest, breathing hard.
And without really thinking about it, he cuts through the crowd and takes the wheelchair from Joy’s hands, maneuvering through a sea of hot, sweaty, angry patients and pushing straight through the double doors.
He glances at Dana. She says nothing, only pointing toward an open bay before nudging Perlah to follow.
When they reach the room, Perlah and Joy move to guide Samira toward the bed.
But Samira startles like she didn’t even realize where she was until now.
And that makes Jack’s heart sink all the way down to the floor.
He crouches in front of her, knees protesting.
“Samira, talk to me. What are you feeling right now?” He asks, trying to meet her eyes.
“I—I don’t know.” She pants, shaking her head slightly. “It’s hard to… breathe.”
“Okay.” He pauses, eyes moving over her face, assessing. “That’s okay. We’re going to figure out why. But we need to get you into bed first.”
“I’m—I’m okay.” She shakes her head weakly. “I’m not a patient.”
“You are until we figure out what’s going on, alright?” Dana says as she steps into the room. “Let’s get you onto the stretcher. Just want to check some vitals.”
Samira looks up at each of them, her gaze landing on Jack.
He nods once.
With help from Joy and Perlah, she shakily pushes to her feet, exhaling hard as they ease her down onto the stretcher.
The routine starts automatically. Blood pressure cuff around her arm. Pulse ox clipped to her finger. Temp under her tongue.
Jack watches the monitor as the numbers appear. Heart rate: high. But not dangerously high. Everything else looks… okay.
Which somehow makes the knot in his chest tighten even more.
Jack studies her for another second.
The sweat at her hairline. The tremor in her hands. The way her breathing keeps catching like she can’t get a full inhale.
A thought clicks into place.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asks.
Samira blinks at him.
“I… I had coffee.” Her voice is thin. “Earlier.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She swallows, thinking, clearly struggling to place it.
“…Yesterday?”
Jack exhales slowly.
“Perlah, can we get a fingerstick?”
She nods, pricking Samira’s finger.
Samira flinches.
Perlah watches the glucometer for a second before announcing, “Fifty-four.”
Jack exhales again, deeper this time. Relief. Not because she’s fine—she’s clearly not—but because there’s an answer. Something fixable.
Bingo.
“I’ll grab some juice,” Joy offers.
But before she can move, Dana’s phone rings. She glances at the screen, already half turning toward the hallway.
“Incoming trauma,” she tells Perlah.
Perlah’s gone before the sentence finishes. Joy follows close behind. The room empties fast.
“I got this,” Jack says, almost automatically. “I’m off the clock. This is my only patient.”
Which is true.
But he says it more because he can see Samira trying to make herself smaller against the stretcher, shoulders curling inward, as if she just stays quiet enough the whole thing might disappear.
Dana pauses in the doorway, looking between them. Understanding flickers across her face.
“I’ll be back with some juice in a minute,” she says.
Then she’s gone.
And suddenly it’s just the two of them.
Jack turns back to the stretcher.
Samira is gripping the sheet so tightly he thinks she might rip it straight down the middle.
“Hey, hey, hey.” His voice softens as he steps into her field of view—close enough for her to see him, but not hovering. “Look at me.”
Samira swallows hard, panting. Her hands slide down to her thighs, fingers digging in, tugging at the fabric of her scrubs.
Like she’s trying to crawl out of her own skin.
And it breaks him.
All he wants is to get her out of here. Away from the noise, the chaos, the pressure pressing in from every direction. Just take her somewhere quiet and let her breathe. Let her exist.
“Samira,” he tries again, a little firmer this time. “Look at me.”
Her eyes lift. They’re glassy. Tired. Frightened.
“Have you had a panic attack before?”
She nods immediately, trying to speak through the rapid breaths.
“C-c-college… a lot,” she manages. “Med school… not—”
Her breath catches again.
“—not for a while.”
“Okay.” Jack nods gently. “That’s what’s happening right now, alright? Your blood sugar dropped, and your adrenaline spiked. Your body thinks it’s in danger.”
He keeps his voice steady, slow.
“You’re in fight-or-flight.”
Samira nods faintly, still struggling to pull in a full breath.
“I’m going to take your hands before you hurt yourself.”
She looks down, only just realizing how hard she’s been gripping her thighs, the fabric twisted tight in her fists.
She nods.
Jack takes her hands carefully.
And he doesn’t let go.
Instead, he moves one of them to rest over her heart, pressing his own hand lightly over it. The other he brings to his chest.
“Match me,” he murmurs. “Deep breaths. In through your nose.”
He takes one himself.
“Slow.”
Samira tries to follow him, but the breath stutters halfway in.
“It feels like I’m drowning,” she chokes out.
Tears spill down her temples into her hair.
Footsteps pass the doorway.
Dana reappears just long enough to press a cold plastic cup into Samira’s hand. Orange juice, condensation already sliding down the sides.
“Sugar packets are in it too,” she murmurs quietly.
Her eyes flick briefly to where Jack is still holding Samira’s hands against their chests.
Then she’s gone again, pulled back toward the rising noise of the trauma arriving down the hall.
Jack gently guides the cup into Samira’s grip.
“Alright,” he says softly. “Small sips.”
Her hands are still shaking too hard to manage the straw. So he steadies the cup with one hand and holds the straw in place with the other.
“Just focus on this,” he murmurs. “Sip. Then breathe.”
Samira tries. The first sip is messy, juice dribbling slightly at the corner of her mouth as her breathing stutters again.
“That’s okay,” Jack says immediately. “You’re doing it. Try again.”
She takes another small sip. Then another. Her breathing is still fast, but the sharp panic edge is beginning to dull just slightly.
Jack keeps his voice low and steady.
“In through your nose,” he reminds her quietly. “Slow… just like that. Good.”
Samira’s eyes stay fixed on him as she takes another shaky sip. Like he’s the only stable thing in the room. Even if he doesn’t feel like it.
The juice goes down as smoothly as it can. The panic doesn’t.
Her breathing has evened out slightly, just enough that she can talk without gasping between every word.
“Sorry,” she manages quietly. “I…uh… sorry.”
Jack shakes his head, the gesture gentle.
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
“I… I’ll be okay in a few minutes,” she says, like she’s trying to convince both of them. “This has happened before.”
“So you said,” he replies softly. “But not in a while?”
She shakes her head.
“I have Xanax in my bag,” she adds after a moment. “For emergencies. I just… haven’t needed it in years.”
Jack doesn’t respond right away.
The thought of her dealing with something like this alone—somewhere quiet, hidden away, breathing through it until it passes—makes something in his chest crack a little.
“Prescribed,” she adds quickly, misreading the silence as judgment.
“Hey,” Jack says gently. “No justification needed.”
His voice softens even more.
“Do you want me to grab it for you?”
Samira shakes her head immediately.
“No. No.” She swallows, trying to steady herself. “I still have the rest of my shift. I can’t be on Xanax, it’ll make me unfocused.”
Jack studies her for a second, jaw tightening.
“I can drive you home,” he offers quietly. “I’ll tell Robby—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than she means it to.
She sees it immediately, the way his expression flickers, and her voice softens.
“No… thank you.” Her eyes drift away from him, toward the thin curtain separating the bay from the rest of the department.
“I can’t go home.”
Jack frowns slightly. “Why not?”
Samira exhales shakily, her fingers twisting the edge of the sheet.
“There’s nothing for me there.”
More tears slip down her face, and this time she doesn’t even try to wipe them away.
“Samira—” He starts, his voice cracking just a touch.
“I’m okay,” she exhales, telling herself more than anyone else.
“You don’t have to be.”
“I do.” She looks back at him, a broken, sad smile forming that makes his chest tighten.
He wants to push harder. To tell her to leave with him. Buy her a smoothie, tuck her into a bed with the AC blasting, let her breathe, let her just be.
But he doesn’t. It’s not his place. And if it were him, he wouldn’t want to go home either.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just grabs the glucometer beside him and holds out his hand. She places her finger in it. Quick prick.
“Eighty-five. Little better. Did you bring lunch?”
“Yes,” she sniffles. “I didn’t eat it yet.”
“I’m going to bring it in here. You’re going to eat it. And you’re going to be monitored for at least half an hour before going back on the floor.”
“Okay. Okay.” She nods as he stands, and for a moment their hands linger a fraction longer than necessary when he helps steady the cup of juice.
“Thank you, Jack,” she whispers, eyes catching his, glimmering with something unspoken.
“You’re welcome, Samira.” He lets his voice hold a little warmth he can’t quite hide.
She hesitates, voice low. “Can you… uh… not tell anyone else I’m in here?”
Jack smirks, just a little, letting that fleeting contact linger in his chest. “Our little secret.”
He heads for the door, but as he does, their eyes meet one last time, a quiet understanding passing between them. Something heavier than words, suspended in the air long after he’s gone.