His Again

POV: Emily

I peel off my gloves with the kind of exhaustion that sits deeper than muscle.

It’s not just my hands that ache—it’s everything. My shoulders, my spine, the back of my eyes. Even my thoughts feel heavy, like they’re dragging through something thicker than air.

“Twelve hours?” Melissa asks from the other side of the station, already shrugging into her coat.

“Thirteen,” I correct, tossing the gloves into the bin. “But who’s counting.”

She snorts. “You. You always count.”

She’s not wrong.

I always count.

Hours. Cases. Heartbeats. The seconds between losing someone and pretending I’m fine enough to move on to the next.

I grab my bag from under the counter, fingers brushing against the worn leather like muscle memory. This place—this chaos, this constant edge between life and death—it’s where I learned how to breathe without thinking.

It’s also where I learned how to not feel too much.

“Millie.”

The nickname hits before I can stop it.

A reflex. A ghost.

It’s quick. Teasing.

But it still lands wrong.

I freeze for half a second—just enough to notice, not enough for anyone else to catch it—and then I turn.

It’s just Sarah, leaning against the wall, already in her jacket, watching me with that look she gets when she’s about to meddle in my life.

“Don’t start,” I mutter.

She grins, unapologetic. “What? It suits you.”

“It doesn’t.”

It used to.

I shove that thought away before it can root.

“You’re coming out with us,” she says, like it’s not a question.

I sigh, dragging a hand over the back of my neck. “I just finished a thirteen-hour shift, Sar.”

“And?” Melissa cuts in, stepping closer, eyes bright in that dangerous way that means she’s made a decision for me. “Exactly why you should come.”

“I should go home,” I argue. “Shower. Sleep. Maybe forget today existed.”

“Or,” Sarah says, pushing off the wall, “you could act like a human being for two hours. Minimum requirement. Food, alcohol, questionable decisions.”

I huff out a laugh despite myself. “Questionable decisions are how people end up back in my ER.”

“Good,” Melissa says. “Job security.”

I shake my head, but they’re already moving, already assuming I’ll follow.

And I do.

Because it’s easier than fighting them.

Because if I go home, it’ll be quiet.

And quiet is… dangerous.

The bar is loud in a way that feels distant, like I’m hearing everything through water.

Music pulses through the floor, lights low and warm, bodies packed just close enough to make the air feel thick. It smells like alcohol and perfume and something fried I can’t quite place.

Normal.

Alive.

So far from the sterile white of the hospital that it almost feels like stepping into another life.

Melissa orders drinks before I even sit down. Sarah is already scanning the room like she’s on a mission.

“I swear to God,” I mutter, dropping onto the stool, “if you try to set me up with someone—”

“Oh, we’re not trying,” Melissa says, sliding a glass toward me. “We’re succeeding.”

I roll my eyes, wrapping my fingers around the cold glass. “I’m not interested.”

“That’s your problem,” Sarah shoots back. “You’re never interested.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“For years,” Melissa says.

I take a sip, letting the burn settle in my chest. “I like my life.”

“You like control,” Sarah corrects. “There’s a difference.”

I don’t answer that.

Because she’s not entirely wrong.

Because control is easier than… anything else.

“Come on,” Melissa nudges my arm. “When was the last time you even looked at someone?”

I shrug. “I look at people all day.”

“Naked, bleeding people don’t count.”

“That’s subjective.”

Sarah groans. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am,” I say, lifting my glass slightly.

Alive. Functioning. Fine.

That’s always been enough.

“Ma’am.”

I turn slightly as a waiter approaches, setting a fresh drink in front of me.

“I didn’t—”

“He sent it,” the waiter says, nodding subtly across the room before walking away.

I follow the gesture automatically.

Oh.

He’s… not what I expected.

Dark hair, slightly messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times. Blue eyes that catch the light just enough to stand out in the dim. No uniform, just a fitted shirt and jeans, but there’s something about the way he stands—steady, grounded—that gives him away anyway.

He’s watching me.

Not in a way that feels invasive.

Just… steady.

Interested.

I turn back to my friends.

“Oh my God,” Melissa breathes. “He’s hot.”

“You should talk to him,” Sarah adds immediately.

“I’m not—no,” I shake my head, already reaching for my drink. “Absolutely not.”

“Emily.”

“I said no.”

But I look again anyway.

Just a quick glance.

And he’s still there.

Still watching.

And when our eyes meet this time… he smiles.

It’s small. Almost hesitant.

Like he’s not entirely sure I won’t reject him.

And before I can stop myself—

I smile back.

It’s automatic. Instinctive.

Gone as quickly as it came.

But it’s enough.

Because a second later, he’s pushing off the bar and walking toward us.

“Oh, you’re done,” Sarah mutters, already sliding off her stool.

“I hate you both,” I whisper under my breath.

“Love you too,” Melissa says brightly.

He stops in front of me, closer now, and somehow even more—

Present.

“Hey,” he says, voice easy. “I’m going to try this in person, since the drink alone didn’t seem convincing.”

Heat creeps up my neck.

“I wasn’t sure if I should say yes or no,” I admit.

“Fair,” he nods. “Can I try again?”

I fold my arms, raising a brow despite myself. “Go ahead.”

“I’m not a creep,” he says. “I’m not going to insist if you’re not interested. I just saw you, thought you looked like someone I’d like to talk to, and figured I’d take a chance.”

Simple.

Direct.

No bullshit.

“Oh, she does,” Sarah says. “She definitely wants to talk.”

I turn to glare at her, but she’s already grabbing her bag.

“Sit,” Melissa tells him, like she’s issuing an order.

He glances at me instead.

Waiting.

I hesitate for half a second.

Then—

“…You can sit.”

That’s all it takes.

He pulls the stool closer, settling beside me.

“Derek,” he says, offering his hand.

“Emily.”

His grip is warm. Firm. Brief.

My friends disappear like they were never there.

Traitors.

“So,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the glass, “was the drink your only strategy?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “It was my best one.”

“Bold.”

“Risky,” he corrects. “You looked like you were about to say no.”

“I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.”

No.

I didn’t.

We fall into conversation easier than I expect.

It’s not intense. Not heavy.

Just… easy.

He asks questions—and actually listens to the answers. Not just waiting for his turn to speak, but paying attention in a way that feels rare.

Dangerous.

“So,” I say after a while, tilting my head slightly, “what do you do, Derek?”

A flicker passes through his expression. Not hesitation—just a shift.

“Military,” he says.

There it is.

Of course.

I tilt my head slightly, studying him now that I’m looking for it.

The posture.

The stillness.

The way he holds himself like he’s always aware of the space around him.

No uniform.

But it’s there anyway.

Old instinct. Old memory.

But I don’t pull away.

Instead, my gaze drops—briefly, casually—and that’s when I see it.

The dog tags.

They hang just under his shirt, the chain catching the light when he moves.

My breath stutters.

Not because of what they are.

Because of how familiar they feel.

“You okay?” he asks, noticing the shift.

I blink, forcing myself back.

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Yeah, I just… haven’t seen those up close in a while.”

He glances down, then back at me. “Bad memories?”

I hesitate.

“Not all bad,” I admit.

Something softer settles in his expression.

“Then maybe not the worst association to have.”

Maybe.

Or maybe the worst ones just take longer to show up.

I take a sip of the drink this time.

And I don’t miss the way his eyes linger on me for just a second longer than necessary.

Like he’s trying to figure something out.

Like I am too.

And for the first time in a long time…

I don’t immediately pull away from it.