The Light That Breaks (Arc1: Internship)

Francesca Alvarez did not mean to provoke world-class diagnostician Ethan Ramsey.

The Light That Breaks

Arc 1: Internship

Francesca Alvarez thought she'd at least get through her first week at Edenbrook without making any waves. It was not her intention to provoke world-class diagnostician Ethan Ramsey into throwing down a challenge on her third day--well, not exactly her intention, anyway. Diagnostics came easy enough for her, but if there was one thing she was sure about, it was patient care. And Dr. Ramsey, with the ice he had for eyes, seemed like he could care less. Or not care at all. Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe she'd just sunk her career before it even started. But how could she have let that slide?

This work is an adaptation of the visual novels: Open Heart

Day 3: Notice

Francesca's sneakers skidded against the linoleum as she sprinted down the hall, Elijah's voice fading behind her. Her heart pounded--not just from running, but from the rush of the realisation slamming into place in her mind. Annie's symptoms, the subtle lab discrepancies, the butterfly rash no one had noticed--it had to be!

She burst into Annie's ward, breathless. "Dr. Ramsey--"

Ethan turned, chart in hand, one brow lifting with calm precision. His cold eyes flicked over her, unreadable.

"I know what's wrong with her," Francesca rushed out, chest heaving. "It's a Lupus flare. That's why the antibiotics weren't working--it's not an infection."

Ethan remained still, just for a moment. Then he checked his watch, and gave a small nod. "Good work."

Francesca blinked. "...Good work?" Her gaze darted to the IV drip, Annie's pale face. "Wait--you already knew."

"I did."

Her stomach twisted, eyes narrowed. "You--you should have treated her right away."

"I was giving you an opportunity."

Francesca's fists clenched at her sides. Heat surged up her neck.

"I don't want your opportunities. I want my patient to get better. And if that's not everyone's priority at this hospital, then I'd rather you fire me right now."

For a second, the room sparked with something dangerous, a line crossed. Annie's soft breathing the only sound filling the space between them.

Then Ethan's expression shifted, just slightly. A flicker of surprise, quickly buried. His mouth quirked--barely a smile, almost a smirk.

"If that's the case," he said evenly, "then you'll need to get to the diagnosis faster than I do. Because in case you've forgotten--" he cast a glance down to his clipboard, then levelled her with an intensity that nearly made her cower-- "Dr. Alvarez, I am an attending tasked to train you, an intern. And I don't intend to stop doing my job."

Francesca's pulse thundered in her ears. She had just laid into Ethan Ramsey. The Ethan Ramsey. What was she thinking? Provoking the world-class diagnostician into throwing down a challenge--in diagnosis!

Reeling, twin tendrils of shock and anger unfurling into a mess inside her, she watched as he moved to the bedside, adjusting Annie's meds with smooth efficiency. His back was straight, his movements controlled--but when he spoke again, it was softer, almost like an invitation.

"Show me you can keep up."

Day 3: Catching

Donahue hummed with laughter and music, the scent of wings and beer thick in the air. Francesca leaned over the battered dartboard, squinting at the scores.

"Tie," she declared, spinning around, ponytail swishing behind her. "This is it, Lahela--last shot. Don't choke."

Bryce smirked, rolling his shoulders back with the easy swagger of someone who lived on charm. "Please. I thrive under pressure."

Francesca snorted, taking a generous sip of her drink as she watched him line up at the throw line, eyes narrowing, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Around them, other residents and interns chatted and laughed, but for this moment, it was just the two of them--medical versus surgical, pride and drinks on the line.

Francesca's competitive streak twitched to life. A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth as a wicked idea sparked. She padded up behind Bryce on silent feet, watching his shoulders tense ever so slightly as he zeroed in on the bullseye.

She leaned in, close enough for her breath to stir the hair at his ear.

"Have I ever told you," Francesca murmured in a voice low and smooth, "how hot you are?"

Bryce's fingers twitched. His arm jerked just as the dart left his hand--and it sailed wide, thunking into the board's outer rim.

"Damn it!" Bryce groaned, slapping a hand to his face as Francesca doubled over with laughter, nearly spilling her drink.

"Yes!" she cheered, spinning toward the bar. "One round!"

Bryce shook his head, trying to fight the flush crawling up his neck. He followed after her, his heart still hammering a little too fast, watching as Francesca leaned against the counter, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with triumph.

She bumped his shoulders hard, playful. "How's losing taste? You seem to like it."

Bryce managed a grin, though his mind was still caught on the ghost of her breath at his ear, on her faint scent of roses.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, running a hand through his blonde hair as he slid onto the barstool beside her. "You're gonna kill me one of these days, Alvarez."

Francesca just laughed, waving for two beers, utterly unaware of the chaos she'd left in her wake.

Day 4: Watched

The first rays of dawn were stretching out over the ambulance bay, painting the pavement gold as Francesca strolled toward Edenbrook's side entrance, already in her scrubs, earbuds in. She paused when she caught sight of a group of surgical interns clustered around the basketball hoop near the staff lot, sneakers squeaking, laughter echoing between emergency vehicles.

Bryce had just launched a shot from the free-throw line, arms up, grin cocky. The ball bounced off the rim, ricocheted across the asphalt--rolling right to Francesca's feet.

Francesca plucked out an earbud, crouched smoothly, and scooped up the ball, twirling it once in her hands. The textured surface felt familiar, almost nostalgic--like summer evenings back home with her cousins, shirts damp with sweat, laughter ringing down the street.

Across the lot, Bryce spotted her, and his grin widened. He jogged a few steps forward, hands cupped around his mouth. "C'mon, Fran! You gonna play or you gonna send that back over?"

Francesca smirked, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. She squared her feet, eyes flicking to the basket, calculating distance without even thinking.

"Don't blink, Lahela," she murmured under her breath.

With an easy flick of her wrist, Francesca sent the ball arcing through the air.

Swish.

It hit nothing but net. For a second, the bay was silent.

Then the surgical interns exploded.

"Yo, you just got posterised!"
"By meds! Oh, man--"
"Bro, retire!"

Bryce stood gaping, hands dropped to his hips, shaking his head like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or groan. But when his eyes locked back onto Francesca, his grin broke across his face, bright and delighted.

"Lucky shot," he called out, folding his arms.

Francesca rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she turned on her heel. "Go get your ball, Beach Head."

As she sauntered toward the doors, Bryce watched her go, the smile lingering on his lips--heart kicking up just a little faster than before.

--

The hallway was a hum of early morning chaos--nurses zipping between rooms, pagers chirping, the smell of coffee wafting through the air. Francesca tucked her clipboard tighter under her arm, slipping into step beside Sienna as the interns clustered behind Dr. Ramsey.

"Let's see who you all are going to kill today," Ethan murmured dryly, eyes flicking over a chart.

Francesca shot Sienna a sideways look, muttering under her breath, "Why does he have to be such a jerk?"

The words had barely left her mouth when Ethan's head tilted, sharp as a hawk catching motion.

"Something to say, Alvarez?"

Francesca stiffened, her heart lurching. "No, Dr. Ramsey."

"That's what I thought." His mouth twitched in what might've been amusement--or irritation. She couldn't tell. "Actually, why don't we start rounds with your patient?"

Francesca felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she flipped through her notes, jaw tight. Of course. She'd probably offended Lord Frost with the Annie case, and now here she was, squarely in his sights. She scowled faintly, biting back a sigh as she moved toward her patient's room.

Behind her, she didn't notice the quick exchange of looks among the other interns--Elijah raising an eyebrow, Sienna stifling a grin.

"Dr. Ramsey knows her name?" one whispered.

"Dude doesn't know anyone's name," came the reply. "Unless he's, you know... watching."

Francesca smoothed her expression, pushing the whispers to the edge of her awareness. Fine. If Ethan Ramsey wanted to make her the first sacrifice of the day, so be it. She wasn't here to crumble--she was here to learn, survive, and maybe--just maybe--prove him wrong.

--

The crowd outside Diagnostics was thick with white coats, scrubs, and curious murmurs. Francesca craned her neck, standing on tiptoe as the gurney rolled past, flanked by Dr. Naveen Banerji himself and, of course, Dr. Ramsey.

"Oh my God," Francesca breathed, elbowing her way closer to Bryce's side. "That's Banerji. The Banerji. I've read his work on neurodiagnostic algorithms, and his paper on cryptogenic seizures--he's a genius." Her eyes sparkled, practically vibrating with excitement.

Bryce slanted her an amused look, hands tucked in his pockets. "Just how many research papers have you read, Alvarez?"

Francesca sighed wistfully as the pair disappeared down the corridor with their patient. "I would love to see them in action."

Then her eyes startled, a wicked grin curling at the edges of her lips, and Bryce already laughed. "What are you--"

"Come on," Francesca's voice dropped to an urgent whisper, and she all but yanked him with her to glide along the white-washed walls.

Bryce grinned, infected, swept. "Look at you--breaking the rules in less than a week." He took a step back, making a show of looking her over. "Who knew?"

Francesca gave him a playful shove. "Hurry up, we're missing the good stuff!"

With Francesca's easy charm leading the way--and some light rule-bending--they slipped up to the OR viewing gallery, pressed against the glass just as Naveen and Ethan worked over the patient.

"Yes!" Francesca whispered, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You're in for a treat, Lahela. You owe me one."

Bryce chuckled, incredulous, half-listening to the low voices below. He threw in the occasional joke, nudging her shoulder to get her to laugh, but after a while, his gaze lingered on Francesca. The way her brow furrowed in concentration, her eyes flicking between the monitors and the doctors--it was almost better than the show below.

"...cryptogenic epilepticus with respiratory infection for kindling," Naveen was saying. "If the benzodiazepine's failing, it has to be--"

"Febrile infection-related epilepsy syndrome," Francesca murmured at the exact moment Ethan rattled it off.

"F.I.R.E.S.," Ethan confirmed below, sharp and sure.

Bryce let out a low whistle, grinning as he nudged her side. "You actually know your stuff."

Francesca rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward. Encouraged, unwitting, throwing anything at the wall at this point to see what stuck, Bryce finally tossed out a joke--a good one--and Francesca let out a quiet snicker just as Ethan's head snapped upward from the OR floor.

Francesca and Bryce ducked down in perfect sync, wide-eyed and breathless, stifling laughter.

"If anyone's up there," Ethan barked, sharp as a whip, "I'll have your career. You, go and check."

"Come on," Francesca hissed, grabbing Bryce's hand as they bolted from the gallery, the sound of their muffled giggles echoing down the stairwell.

Day 6: Ready

The air in the patient room felt too tight. Not from sickness, but from the quiet pressure of being on Ethan Ramsey's radar.

He was pacing, diagnostic file in one hand, pen in the other, flicking sharp questions like scalpels at the interns clustered at the foot of the bed. It had started as routine. A middle-aged man admitted with vague abdominal pain, nothing out of the ordinary--until Ethan had caught the subtle, irregular pulse, the slight pallor in the fingernails. Something wasn't adding up. So he'd turned the moment into a pop quiz.

"Differentials," he said curtly. "You."
"Uh--gallstones?"
"No."
"Diverticulitis?"
"Absurd."
"Pancreatitis--"
"Why?"
"Well, he's--uh--his--"
"Wrong."

One by one, he carved through guesses, the tone in his voice becoming increasingly flat. Each intern tried harder, more frantic than the last, eager to impress. No one noticed the quiet calm in Francesca's stance, arms relaxed behind her clipboard, not shifting like the others, not clamouring for space in his attention. She was simply watching.

Ethan didn't look at her. Not yet. He was riding the rhythm now, sharp and focused, annoyed at the mediocrity--but then, his pen stopped mid-gesture, hovering as he pointed at her without even thinking.

"Alvarez."

She didn't flinch. "Mesenteric ischemia," she said clearly.

Ethan paused.

The silence was tangible.

He tilted his head a degree. "Explain."

"Pain's out of proportion. Risk profile checks out--diabetes, hypertension, smoker. Mild leukocytosis but lactate is climbing. No guarding, which rules out the peritoneum. Needs a CT angio, stat."

His mouth didn't move. His eyes, however, did.

Francesca adjusted the clipboard in her arms--and Ethan noticed, for the first time, that she had a second file tucked beneath it. She flipped it out with practised ease and held it out to him, already clipped with the request form, vitals charted, and a flagged printout of his labs.

"I've prepped the order," she said, voice smooth. "Would you like to check the reports before I go ahead, Dr. Ramsey?"

The room was dead quiet.

Even the patient looked like he was holding his breath.

Ethan took the file from her fingers, gaze still locked with hers. He dropped his eyes to the paperwork--flipped through it with swift precision. Everything was there. And more than that--she wasn't guessing. She was ready. As if she'd known. As if she'd seen it just like he had. As if she'd read him.

God, she was good.

And she didn't do it for him. She didn't care about the performance. She cared about the patient.

For the first time in a long time, Ethan felt something shift. Like a wire somewhere deep in his chest tugged tight.

He looked up. Held her gaze.

"It's sound, Alvarez. Proceed."

Francesca took the file back with a simple nod, her smirk visible but wholly earned. "Yes, Dr. Ramsey."

--

Rounds wrapped with the scraping of clipboards and the murmurs of interns trying not to look exhausted.

Ethan dismissed them with his usual clipped nod, but his tone lacked its usual bite. No one dared question it. He wasn't entirely sure he'd spoken aloud, anyway. His body was moving--hands flipping through the next file, legs already carrying him towards the nurse's station--but his mind was miles behind, still in that patient room, still feeling the shock of Francesca's words.

Mesenteric ischemia.

Perfectly diagnosed. Seamlessly prepared. Boldly delivered. She hadn't just answered his challenge. She'd answered him--in the exact language he respected most. Professional.

It took him longer than he cared to admit to realise what she'd done.

She'd showed him.

An echo of Annie's case, when he'd known the answer but had handed the reins to her. Let her think through it, figure it out, grow. She'd seen this case for what it was--dangerous, masked, urgent--and she'd let him catch up to her, all while ensuring no time was lost for the patient. That last bit was not out of spite, not for show. Simply because it was the right thing to do--what he should have done with Annie.

And she'd done it so calmly. So cleanly.

Ethan almost shook his head. There was something electric humming beneath his skin, sparking down his spine.

How long had it been since he'd felt that?

Since Harper, maybe.

He told himself it didn't mean anything. He told himself he was only impressed by her clinical precision, her instincts. But as he stood by the desk and pretended to scan through a file he'd already read twice, his eyes flicked--unconsciously--to the hallway, and his ears strained without his permission.

He was listening for her voice.

And then, there it was.

Francesca's footsteps, brisk and purposeful, echoing faintly from the corridor as she exited with another intern trailing beside her. She sounded unfazed. She wasn't riding on a wave of triumph--she was just moving on, the moment already behind her.

The other intern murmured something Ethan barely caught: "You're insane for talking to him like that earlier."

Francesca's answer came with a shrug in her voice. "I'm here to learn, not keep my head down."

Ethan didn't turn. Didn't move. But the corner of his mouth twitched. Just a fraction. Almost imperceptible.

It was gone a second later. So was she.

But something--silent but seismic--had shifted between them. And Ethan, belatedly remembering discipline, returned to his day.

Day 10: Knight

The shouting was slurred. Furious. Wet.

Ethan glanced up from his chart at the sound--already bracing for the kind of problem only the ER could spit out. A paramedic wheeled in a man strapped to the gurney by sheer will, half-conscious but violent in his thrashing. Blood spattered his sleeve. His wrist bore a crude band of gauze already soaked through.

"Pulled his IV. Walked out of County reeking of whiskey--probably looking for drugs," someone muttered nearby. "Vomit all over..."

But Ethan didn't need the details. He'd seen this kind of patient before.

The man roared. Arms flew. A tech flinched back. Nurses snapped to attention. Nearby residents pivoted towards the noise, a few of them approaching instinctively. Ethan took one step forward--but then paused. Too many people already converging. A dozen hands. A dozen voices. No use charging into chaos when it didn't need one more commander.

He clocked Alvarez's presence a second too late.

The man had torn off a monitor lead and staggered to his feet--swinging wide, wild. The nurse in front of him--young, green--had frozen in place, eyes wide.

And Francesca stepped in.

No hesitation, no calculation. Just a sudden shift--a shield raised where no one else had thought to place one.

The sound--sharp, sickening--of knuckles cracking against flesh hit Ethan a heartbeat later.

Francesca crumpled.

Ethan launched forward--for a split second, there was nothing between Francesca and the man.

Then a blur of motion--blonde, fast, decisive--collided into the patient and slammed him back against the bed. The young man barked for restraints, voice unsteady but firm. Others surged forward. Techs. Orderlies. Nurses. Someone shouted for Ativan. Someone else reached for wrist ties.

The scene blurred. But Ethan wasn't watching any of that.

He was watching her.

Francesca was upright now. Barely. Two nurses flanked her, steadying her as she sat on the edge of a bed. Her face was pale. Blood streaked her chin. Her lip was torn--deeply. It would need sutures. Her hand trembled as she pressed gauze to it.

Contusion to the zygomatic arch, Ethan's mind supplied automatically. Risk of orbital fracture. Dislocated jaw unlikely given speech attempt. No signs of neurological compromise--she's alert. Oriented. Responsive. Pain response intact.

She swayed slightly.

And he hated--hated--how light her shoulders looked under the weight.

He started forward again--but stopped cold when the blonde appeared beside her.

The young man crouched. Spoke low. His hand hovered near her shoulder before gently steadying her. Ethan watched as Francesca nodded--slow, deliberate. Tried to speak. Her lips parted, forming the first shape of a word--but the young man cut her off with a look. Stern. Focused.

She gave in. Lie down, he must've said.

And she did. Her body eased backwards, reluctantly. Ethan tracked the movement, eyes flicking over her vitals. Breathing steady. Eyes focused. No glassiness. No slurring.

She was lucid.

And safe.

Ethan's breath escaped from his grip. He hadn't even realised he was holding it. He was halfway across the ER floor, caught in some strange stasis--eyes fixed, body tense, feet frozen.

Why did he feel...?

"Dr. Ramsey?" A nurse startled him.

He turned. Not sharply. Too slow. The nurse gave him a questioning look.

Ethan cleared his throat, quiet and rough. "The situation's under control," he said. He didn't check if she believed him. He glanced back.

Francesca was lying flat now, eyes closed. Her hand still clutched the gauze. The blonde hovered nearby, talking to one of the nurses.

She'd stepped into a blow for someone she didn't even know.

Foolish.

Reckless.

...Brave.

Good God, Ethan thought.

And then he walked away.

Not because he wanted to. But because he didn't know what he might have done if he stayed.

--

Ethan had slept fitfully.

He hadn't questioned--didn't want to question--why. But by the time morning came, he was already reaching for answers he wouldn't let himself ask. His shoulders tightened as he checked the attendings' roster. Someone else was assigned rounds with the interns.

He told himself it was fine. He told himself it didn't matter. Discipline. Professionalism. He repeated those words in his mind like mantras. Like sedatives. But then came the bargaining, creeping in at the edges.

It's just a split lip.

Just a hit. Just bruising. Just stitches. She'd been alert. Responding. The young man had been quick. The nurses capable. He reviewed the day's new cases in his office. One caught his eye. A complex abdominal presentation. Subtle signs, easy to miss. The kind of case that required more than sharpness--it required instinct.

He hesitated only a second.

Then Ethan picked up the file. Professionalism said he should find her. His heart said thank God. In the hallway, he heard her before he saw her. A laugh--soft, low, but bright. Unmistakable.

It startled him into stillness.

He followed the sound.

Down the corridor, just outside the nurse's station, a small cluster of interns were gathered. She was in the middle of them, like a gravitational center. The blonde was among them. Probably friends. Francesca was making them laugh--easy, quick lines, bumping one of them on the shoulder with a grin.

Ethan didn't realise until that moment just how tightly he'd been wound. Something in him eased. He approached without calling out right away, just watching a moment longer--until the chance would pass if he waited any more.

"Alvarez," he called.

She turned. He'd said her name from just far enough away that she'd have to step away. Her friends gave her a wide berth, expressions flickering somewhere between deference and survival instinct. Francesca rolled her eyes fondly at them, waved goodbye, then made her way to him.

She greeted him like it was just another day. "Morning, Dr. Ramsey. What can I do for you?"

Ethan handed her the file. "New case," he said simply. "Came in twenty minutes ago."

"Right." She took it, scanned the front sheet. "Oh, this is a good one."

She didn't ask why he'd chosen her for it. Not at first. But after a beat, she glanced up, waiting for more--some instruction, some specific note. The silence stretched.

Ethan's eyes had dropped.

To her lip.

Three stitches. Clean, precise. But the skin around it was swollen, bruised at the edge of the upper cheekbone--where the knuckles had landed. The color was already changing, bleeding from red into a dull yellow-purple. Healing. It looked bad. Not catastrophic. But bad. He didn't know what his face was doing. He just knew it was too quiet.

"Anything I should note for this case, Dr. Ramsey?" she asked, brows lifting slightly.

There was no edge in her tone. Just a question. But it startled him, like she'd caught him thinking something he shouldn't have.

Ethan straightened slightly. "No. Carry on."

She gave him a look. Brief. Quizzical. Not lingering. "Of course, Dr. Ramsey," she said, and nodded. "Thank you for the case."

Then she turned and walked away. He stood there for a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned too. But her laughter echoed in his ears, stubborn and bright. The image of her--shoulders relaxed, mouth curved, joking around like nothing had happened--lodged itself in his mind.

She wasn't just competent.

She was resilient.

Dangerous thing, that kind of heart.

Day 13: Care

It had been thirty minutes.

Ethan glanced at his watch again, thumb tapping once against the glass as he walked down the hall. Half an hour since he'd handed off that case. Another one he knew was sharp-edged, difficult. The kind of diagnostic knot that would've made him perk up back in residency. He hadn't even meant to think about it, not really. But still--he was estimating. He'd taken less than five minutes to crack it. So maybe--

Her laugh. Soft. Quick. Bright.

He stopped. Like something in his spine flicked on instinct. And then, like clockwork, his feet followed the sound. He didn't go in--just paused by the doorway. Far enough to appear coincidental, close enough to see.

Francesca was tying a massive, ridiculous ribbon around an IV stand. Bright yellow, too loud for the room, flowers printed like a child had drawn them with wild glee. The elderly patient in the bed was chuckling now, clutching her ribs.

Francesca's grin grew. "That's it, Emily. Let's laugh about it, alright?" Her voice gentled, though her stance remained firm. "Don't let it win."

Ethan blinked.

The ribbon wasn't just decoration. It was armor. He watched them--just two people talking. The old woman wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, clinging to Francesca's hand like it was the only tether to something solid. And Francesca stayed, her body curved protectively forwards, letting the moment unfold with patience, with grace.

This wasn't intellect. This was heart.

Something in his chest shifted. Not sudden. Just... undeniable. He didn't move, didn't speak. Just stood there, realising that no amount of diagnostic brilliance explained this. This care. This kind of courage.

Then Francesca turned. And startled--just a flicker--when she saw him.

She'd caught him standing still. Too still. No clinical clipboard in hand. No task to mask his presence. For a second, she blinked. Then she moved, around the foot of the bed, then towards the door, her expression tilted. Wry. Knowing. Like a dancer catching a rival peeking at rehearsal.

Ethan couldn't help it. A flicker of dry amusement lit behind his eyes.

"Looks like you do know a thing or two about patient care," he said, coolly. But there was a thread of warmth in it. Maybe even admiration.

Francesca stopped in front of him, arms folded, weight cocked onto one foot. Her eyes sparkled, sharp. "Try not to sound too impressed, Dr. Ramsey. Your lip might curl off."

His smirk tugged before he could rein it in, as if summoned by her word--just a half-second too honest. She smirked too, smug and brilliant and bright--and his eyes dropped. He hadn't meant them to. Her lip--stitches out. Faint bruise nearly gone. But--

Did it still hurt when she smiled like that?

She didn't seem to notice the pause. Or maybe she ignored it. "I'm getting close to cracking that case you gave me," she said lightly. "Don't blink."

Then she turned, ponytail swishing like punctuation, and the corners of his mouth twitched. Ethan didn't laugh. But he felt it. In his chest. In his ribs. And just then, the bright yellow of her hair tie caught the light--a flash of the same yellow as the ribbon.

Ethan stayed still.

He glanced once more towards the room she'd just exited. Emily was asleep now. Eyes closed, face slack with peace. His gaze rested on the ribbon. Bright yellow. Loud. Obnoxious.

A bit of sunshine.

He turned, and kept walking.

Day 17: Wonder

It started as a whisper, a half-joke passed between the nurses and interns.

"Where's Alvarez?"

"Check the broom closet. Harry Potter M.D. probably crashed there again."

Ethan had heard it once, and immediately dismissed it as the kind of dramatics interns defaulted to--exaggerated jokes to make the grind seem a little funnier. The second time, he smirked faintly to himself. Overblown, clearly. But the third time--standing at the nurses' station, scrolling through labs--he paused. Just a beat too long.

A broom closet.

He remembered his own intern days: instant ramen dinners, overnight shifts curled up under desks, cold couches barely long enough to lie flat. Everyone made it work. No one complained. But a broom closet? Either the others were still being silly, or Francesca was under pressure he hadn't seen.

Or maybe--

Ethan snapped the chart shut, his jaw tight. Why was he wondering about her?

He turned sharply down the hall, his coat flaring behind him like an answer, the thought shoved into some dark, unused corner of his mind. He didn't have time to worry about interns. Not about one who shielded others with her body. Not about one who coaxed laughter out of weary patients like it was her mission. Not about one who tied bright floral-patterned bows onto IV poles like a banner to rally for battle--war.

His thoughts had always orbited Francesca's brilliance--how fast she worked, how precise her mind was--but now they drifted somewhere else entirely. Somewhere messier. Somewhere warm.

"Focus, Ramsey," he muttered under his breath, pushing through the Diagnostics doors. But the thought lingered. Like an itch under his skin.

Harry Potter M.D. in a broom closet.

What was Francesca doing there?

--

Over the next several days, maybe longer, Ethan kept an ear out for her name. Casual. Unintentional. Practically subconscious, he told himself. Just a continued, appropriate consideration of a high-potential intern.

A perfectly clinical interest.

But the truth--it pressed just beneath the surface, thinned now like stretched paper--was that Francesca had lodged herself into his awareness with a kind of stubbornness. And when he overheard a nurse mention offhandedly--

"Are you going for Fran's housewarming? I heard Bryce is gonna be there..."

The wave of relief that crashed through him was swift and quiet and undeniable.

Ethan refused--with a glower so practised he would have signed it off himself--to admit that was the name of the feeling loosening his chest.

But his heart knew, and was waiting. This was anything but professional.

Day 20: Language

Francesca leaned one hip against the chair in Mrs. Martinez's room, grinning over her bottle of water as the older woman recounted the latest hospital gossip in rapid-fire Spanish.

Everyone loved Mrs. Martinez.

A fixture at Edenbrook for 12 years for Rhodes disease, Teresa Martinez knew all the nurses and doctors, and they all knew her, many having gone through their internship and residency and then becoming attendings with the tough, cheeky, old lady as a constant presence. It was a rite of passage for interns to be pranked by Mrs. Martinez, and after Francesca, with Elijah, had laughed herself clean out of tears when they got a flash of the wily old lady's bare butt through the gap of her hospital gown, Francesca decided--Teresa Martinez was her hero.

It had been simple, after that: Francesca walking into Mrs. Martinez's ward--her room, as they had all come to call it--and greeting her in Spanish. The old lady's eyes lit up at the linguistic connection with more mischief than any 67-year-old ought to have--and just like that, they hit it off. Mrs. Martinez's store of gossip flowed unbridled in volume and candor within the safety of the foreignness of their shared language to all other ears. And the bright laughter she drew out of the young woman always led Francesca back here, whenever she had time to spare.

Here, helplessly trying to catch the right time to take that sip of water without spitting it out in a laugh.

"--and I told him, doctor or not, you bring that cheap cologne near me again and I'll report you to infection control!" Mrs. Martinez cackled, waving a hand.

Francesca lowered her bottle as a chuckle rushed out of her. "I'm going to get in trouble just listening to you, Mrs. Martinez."

"Bah! You need to loosen up, mija. Have some fun!" Francesca smiled, taking a drink-- "And watch out for that one--" Mrs. Martinez flicked her chin toward the door just as Ethan stepped inside, flipping through a chart.

In Spanish, perfectly audible, Mrs. Martinez added, "This one's another with a stick up his butt."

Francesca's eyes widened. She choked on her water, coughing into her sleeve as Ethan raised an eyebrow.

"Alvarez," he said dryly, "if you're done drowning yourself, give me the morning labs."

"Y-yes, Dr. Ramsey!" Francesca strained, cheeks burning as Mrs. Martinez shot her a wicked little wink.

Day 25: Mask

Francesca strode through the hallway, ponytail swinging as she weaved in and out of a blur of nurses and doctors like a homing missile toward the labs. Heads turned, annoyed sounds trailed in her wake, but Francesca didn't notice--she was sure of her diagnosis of Nigel. Dead sure. She only needed the blood test to prove it. Her lips curled at a corner--then she could savour that mild but satisfying glint in Dr. Ramsey's--

Francesca's legs skidded to a stop.

Down the hall, Ethan walked at a measured pace, Mrs. Martinez holding his arm for balance, her other hand resting lightly on his sleeve. They were talking, and Mrs. Martinez had on her trademark grin that told the world she was up to no good. But Ethan--Francesca's heart stuttered in her chest.

He was smiling.

Ethan Ramsey. Smiling.

Their conversation drifted to her as they neared. "...so what did you do?" Mrs. Martinez asked, laughter in her voice.

His smile. It was a warm, unguarded thing. Francesca held her breath, as if the slightest movement might cause it to vanish. "I blamed it on the dog, of course," Ethan said.

"You little devil!" Mrs. Martinez gasped, mock-scandalised. "Oh, but I'm sure you were a lovely boy."

Ethan's smile tilted, just a little wry, and Francesca's head tipped lightly to the side, like she needed a better angle. Was this how he had always looked, behind that flawless composure?

"More like a lovable scoundrel. I got away with everything."

Francesca remained frozen as Ethan guided Mrs. Martinez back to her room, murmuring something that made the old lady chuckle fondly as they disappeared inside. Francesca's feet pulled her forward, tugged by an invisible thread to check--maybe, if her eyes had fooled her--but padding softly as if not to disturb what she'd just witnessed, like it was something fragile.

Then Ethan emerged, his usual impervious expression back in place, and the moment evaporated like it was never there. But there, still, Francesca stood, staring as he rounded his eyes on her without surprise, as if--and she entertained this thought with a grin poised on her lips--he had let her watch.

"Alvarez," he acknowledged coolly, then fixed his gaze like he was assessing something strange--and making sure to show it. "Why are you gawping like a fish out of water?"

Francesca blinked, more and more rapidly, as she scrambled for her wits. "N-no reason! It just..." Honesty got a hold of her tongue and made her cheeks burn. "...looked like you were having fun."

For a moment, his eyes softened, almost imperceptibly. Then the scowl descended like a person settling into their favourite armchair. "Inconceivable as it may seem, Alvarez, I do have the capacity for joy."

The capacity... Francesca set her sights on his words with something like curiosity, or a boldness, as a sudden impulse struck her--to see that mask, now that she knew it was one, lifted again. Ethan's eyes shuttled between hers, as if detecting movement in the dark, and Francesca realised with a start how his set of blues looked so much like ice.

Ethan cleared his throat, but held her gaze, almost valiantly. "I assume... you were on your way to something?"

Francesca's eyes widened, alarmed. "Hashimoto!" The word left her lips in a half-gasp as she took off running, and the air whipped against Ethan like the spray of an unexpectedly strong tide, the kind that made one laugh for not knowing better to stand so close.

He tempered it down to a shake of the head, bewildered and gratified all the same--he knew for which patient Francesca was sprinting towards the labs--Nigel. Hashimoto's thyroiditis.

Ethan turned to head down the opposite direction, his steps just a little lighter.

She'd got it right. Again.

He checked his watch. Under thirty minutes.

She was faster.

Day 30: Challenge

The foyer rippled with anxious energy, interns and residents packed shoulder to shoulder, the air crackling with unspoken curiosity. Francesca squeezed in next to Sienna, frowning slightly.

"What's going on?" she whispered.

Sienna only shushed her, eyes fixed on the small podium at the front.

Ethan stood to the side of the platform, hands behind his back. Next to him, slightly stooped and with the kind of steady presence that didn't need height to command a room, stood Dr. Naveen Banerji.

Francesca straightened instinctively, her pulse quickening. The legend himself.

As Naveen stepped forward, the crowd fell quiet, all heads turning, ears perked in unified attention.

"I'll be stepping away from my post," Naveen said, his voice warm with the calm of someone long revered, long admired. "It's been a privilege to teach and to learn in equal measure. As head of Diagnostics, I've watched the field grow more complex, and I've had the honour of watching many of you rise to meet that challenge. But now, it's time I step aside, and make room for new minds to lead the charge..."

Francesca's breath caught slightly. She had read every paper Naveen had ever written, studied his casework like scripture. The idea of his absence hadn't even occurred to her--he was one of those fixtures she'd imagined would always be there. A guiding star.

But even as her mind ran, and her chest ached, Francesca's eyes had drifted to Ethan.

He stood still, just behind Naveen, posture immaculate--but her brows furrowed.

He should've looked wistful. Or moved. Or something. A slant of his lips, the barest dip in his brow--any sign of what this must have meant. After all, wasn't this the mentor he'd followed for years? But no. His face was unreadable. Carved from ice.

And his eyes--

Francesca's chest tightened. His eyes looked dead.

She didn't realise she'd been staring until the room erupted in gasps and murmurs. She blinked, snapped back. "What--what happened?" she hissed to Sienna.

Sienna, half-smirking like she knew exactly what had distracted Francesca, leaned in. "Dr. Ramsey's taking over from Banerji, so Diagnostics is holding a competition," she murmured. "Hospital-wide. Whoever performs best--even an intern--gets the free spot on the team."

Francesca's mouth dropped open. "What?"

Before the full weight of that could settle, she felt it--a prickle at the back of her neck.

She looked up through the whispering crowd--and her breath hitched.

Ethan was looking at her.

The stillness in his face was gone. There was something sharp in his eyes now--alive, electric, daring. The same glint she'd seen that late afternoon with Annie, when she'd fired back at him and he'd levelled her with a gaze as loud as the shout she should've gotten for talking back to an attending--and thrown the gauntlet down.

Francesca's heart pounded and roared in her ears.

She understood that look.

If you want to stop me, you'll have to outrun me.

For a beat, the crowd faded. It was just Ethan, across the room, and Francesca--standing still in a spotlight only she and Ethan could see, realising she was being called into the ring.