Jamie stood in the OR gallery, his gaze locked onto the scene below.
To anyone else, the surgery looked flawless—Burke's movements were controlled, precise, exactly what was expected from a cardiothoracic surgeon of his caliber. But Jamie wasn't just anyone.
His mind worked differently. His memory was a vault, each surgery he had ever witnessed or performed cataloged in meticulous detail. He remembered the way Dr. David H. Adams in New York performed Mitral valve repairs with the precision of an artist. The way Dr. Lee's sutures were so fine they were nearly invisible. The way his mother—when she was still alive—taught told him that surgery wasn't just about skill, it was about responsibility.
During his residency in New York, when other interns went home after brutal shifts, Jamie stayed behind in the training labs. He spent hours practicing with sutures, pushing himself past exhaustion, forcing his hands to become steadier, faster, perfect. He studied surgeons like a scientist studied specimens—analyzing technique, muscle memory, precision.
It had been his way of honoring his mother. She had been a surgeon, too. A damn good one. And when she died, Jamie hadn't just lost her—he lost the roadmap to who he was supposed to be.
So he became his own roadmap.
He fast-tracked everything. He was always ahead, always pushing the limits of what was possible. First in his class. Youngest in his program. First into the OR, last to leave. He had spent years crafting a reputation built on raw talent, ruthless work ethic, and an instinct that made even his seniors take notice.
"Maybe we had that in common." Jamie muttered, remembering how both he and his dad used tu burry themselves in work and school after his mothers death.
But now, watching Burke, he saw the flaw instantly.
A hesitation. A slight, almost imperceptible tremor. A shift in grip, a delay in his stitch—compensating for weakness that shouldn't be there.
Jamie's jaw tightened.
He had seen this before. A surgeon pushing through, pretending they were fine. He had looked the other way once before. And he regretted it.
It had been during his residency. A mentor he had admired.
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Flashback:
New York, 2000
The first time Jamie saw Dr. Conrad Rhodes operate, he thought he was witnessing magic.
Rhodes wasn't just good—he was extraordinary. The kind of cardiac surgeon who didn't just fix hearts but redefined how surgery was done. The type whose hands never trembled, even in the most chaotic cases. He had a reputation that extended beyond New York—patients flew in from across the country just to be on his table.
Conrad Rhodes? He was the best.
Jamie made it his mission to train under him. He spent extra hours in the surgical lab, took on additional shifts, did whatever it took to get noticed. And it worked.
Rhodes saw something in him.
"Knight," the attending had said one night, tossing a file onto the table as Jamie reviewed post-op reports. "If you're going to haunt my OR like a damn ghost, you might as well scrub in tomorrow. Triple valve replacement. 7 a.m. sharp."
Jamie wasn't late.
For months, he worked alongside Rhodes, watching, learning, absorbing. Every technique, every correction. It was everything he wanted—until it wasn't.
The first time Jamie noticed something was off, it was subtle.
A late start here. A longer-than-usual pause there. Rhodes started rubbing his temples between cases, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he were trying to will away exhaustion. His posture shifted—shoulders slightly heavier, steps a little slower.
Jamie heard the whispers from other residents.
He's been different since the divorce. He sleeps here half the week. They say he hasn't taken a day off in a year.
But when Rhodes operated? He was still better than most.
His hands weren't quite as fast, his movements not quite as sharp, but he was still Conrad Rhodes.
And Jamie ignored the signs, because he wanted to believe in the legend.
Then it happend:
58-year-old male patient. Acute left main coronary artery occlusion.
CPR for ten minutes before being rushed into surgery. Ventricular fibrillation.
By the time Rhodes opened the chest, Jamie saw it.
The micro-hesitations.
The fraction-of-a-second delays.
The way Rhodes' grip adjusted—just slightly—before placing a suture.
Then—the hemorrhage.
Rhodes' hand slipped.
A shallow stitch along the left anterior descending artery (LAD). A critical tear.
Bright red blood filled the cavity.
Alarms blared. A nurse's voice—"He's bleeding out!"
Jamie moved before he could think.
He was at the table in seconds. Hands steady, precise. "Give me suction! Now!"
A Yankauer was thrust into his palm. His mind mapped the anatomy instantly—the tear in the LAD was spilling blood into the pericardial sac, compressing the heart.
Cardiac tamponade.
"Pericardiocentesis, now!" Jamie ordered sharply.
The anesthesiologist reacted fast, preparing the needle while a nurse handed Jamie a syringe. He positioned it quickly, sliding the needle into the pericardial sac, drawing back. Dark blood filled the syringe.
"Tamponade confirmed."
Jamie turned to anesthesia. "Increase the norepinephrine drip, watch the MAP. We need to keep perfusion up."
The patient's blood pressure was dropping fast. Hypotension.
Jamie worked on instinct, his eidetic memory pulling from every case he had ever studied, every emergency he had ever trained for. He had seen this exact scenario in the simulation labs, practicing on perfused cadavers for hours until his hands knew the sequence by muscle memory.
"We need open pericardial drainage. Scalpel."
A nurse handed it to him. Jamie made a controlled incision, exposing the pericardium further. The pressure relieved instantly, but the bleed was still active.
"Clamp the left internal mammary."
A resident scrambled to assist.
"6-0 Prolene."
A suture was placed into his waiting hand. He worked fast, using fine, precise movements to repair the tear in the artery.
The heart was stabilizing, the rhythm steadying.
"Bulldog clamp on the distal anastomosis. Now."
Hands moved around him in perfect sync. The bleeding slowed, then stopped.
Then—the heart beat. A normal rhythm.
Jamie exhaled, hands steady as he secured the final knot.
Only then did he glance at Rhodes. The man was watching him, something unreadable in his expression.
Then, a nod. Approval.
Jamie didn't miss the exhaustion in his eyes.
Jamie peeled off his gloves, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to his skin. The scrub room was silent except for the rhythmic rush of water as Rhodes methodically washed the blood from his hands.
Scrub Room:
The man hadn't said a word since leaving the OR.
Jamie had followed, stepping in behind him, watching as Rhodes stared at his reflection in the steel mirror. His face was pale, drawn—not from exertion, but from something deeper. Recognition.
He knew.
Rhodes turned the faucet off, pressing his palms against the edge of the sink. He still wasn't looking at Jamie.
"Not bad, Knight." His voice was even, but his expression—when he finally turned—was something else.
Jamie crossed his arms. "You almost killed that man." Rhodes flinched.
A long, heavy silence stretched between them. Then, a tired sigh.
"I know."
Jamie waited. Rhodes let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Thirty-six hours," he admitted finally. "I've been awake for thirty-six hours. Barely remember the last time I went home. The last time I slept in a real bed." He let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I thought I could push through."
Jamie frowned. "You couldn't."
Rhodes nodded slowly. "No, I couldn't."
Another silence.
Then, Rhodes looked him in the eye.
"You saved that patient."
Jamie didn't move.
Rhodes studied him for a long moment before exhaling. "And the truth is—even if I had been in top form, I wouldn't have done a better job."
Jamie blinked.
Rhodes smirked faintly, shaking his head. "That's the part that stings the most, you know? You weren't just stepping in—you were stepping up. And I know a rising star when I see one."
Jamie swallowed but said nothing.
Rhodes let out a quiet chuckle. "You're going to be better than me one day."
Jamie clenched his jaw, but Rhodes wasn't done.
"I don't know what drives you like this," he admitted. "But if you keep going? You'll surpass me in time." His tone turned serious. "You have a gift, Jamie. The potential to be someone great."
Jamie looked away.
Then, Rhodes' voice softened. "But don't make the same mistakes I did."
Jamie frowned slightly.
Rhodes gave him a pointed look.
Because those weren't Rhodes' words. Those were his mother's.
A flicker of something twisted in his chest—guilt, regret, understanding.
Rhodes turned back to the sink, bracing himself against the counter. He looked exhausted. He looked done.
The next morning, Rhodes resigned. Citing exhaustion.
He left New York for a year. Took time to heal.
By the time he came back, Jamie was already on his way into war.
And Jamie?
Jamie got his fellowship. He had earned his place.
But the lesson stayed with him. Because the first time he had looked the other way, he had almost lost a patient.
He wouldn't make that mistake again.
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Present Day – Seattle Grace Hospital
Jamie pushed through the doors of the scrub room, his mind still turning over what he had just seen in the OR.
Burke's tremor. The micro-hesitations. The barely-there shifts in grip.
It wasn't obvious—not like before. But Jamie had spent years watching hands, memorizing technique, seeing the smallest inconsistencies.
He had looked the other way once before. He wouldn't do it again.
He stepped up to the sink, reaching for the soap dispenser when—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
His pager vibrated violently against his hip.
OB EMERGENCY – OR 3
Jamie swore under his breath, flicking the water off his hands. He glanced toward the OR where Burke was still operating, his fingers tightening against the edge of the sink.
He had planned to scrub in. To keep watching. To see for himself how bad this really was.
But not now.
Jamie exhaled sharply, stepping away from the sink, shaking his hands dry.
His eyes flicked back toward the window that looked down into Burke's OR, watching for a second longer.
This isn't over.
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and pushed through the doors.
He was already moving before the next page could come.
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The bright overhead lights cast sharp reflections on the steel instruments, illuminating the sterile white and blue of the operating room. Monitors beeped steadily, tracking the mother's vitals, the rhythmic thump of the fetal heartbeats reverberating in the OR.
Addison Montgomery stood at the head of the table, scalpel in hand, her expression cool and precise. But her voice was sharp with urgency.
"I don't want to alarm you or make you nervous in any way," she said, her eyes flicking toward George O'Malley, who was standing beside her, his gloved hands carefully stabilizing Noelle LeBatt's uterus.
"Because you seem like a decent person, O'Malley, but I've got about 120 seconds to get Baby 1 out of Uterus 1 while you're holding Uterus 2."
George swallowed hard.
Addison's tone didn't waver.
"And if you so much as hiccup, you could rupture Uterus 2 and kill this woman's child." She arched a brow. "Just try and be careful, okay?"
George barely managed a nod. His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted his hold on the delicate tissue, the weight of the moment sinking into his bones.
Everything was happening too fast.
One baby was coming now. The second, still developing, needed to stay inside. But with the contractions worsening and maternal distress escalating, Addison had made the call—an emergency C-section before the contractions caused preterm labor in both uteri.
George exhaled shakily.
"Ready to perforate Uterus 2," Addison announced.
She barely got the words out when George's hands suddenly jerked.
"Wait, Dr. Montgomery," George's voice was sharp, panicked. "My baby's moving. It's really moving—I can't hold it still."
The monitors blared.
Addison's head snapped up. "I need you to hold her still, George."
George's breathing was uneven. He could feel it—Baby B shifting violently against his hands.
"I know. I'm trying." His voice was tight. "What should I do? It's really moving."
Addison's expression didn't change. "I need you to keep her still, George."
But the fetal heart monitor spiked—
"You're sending her into distress! You have to get that baby to stop moving!" A nurse added.
George's fingers twitched. His mind blanked. "How do I do that?"
Silence.
"Talk, O'Malley." began Karev.
George blinked. "What?"
Alex stepped closer. "Talk to it. To the baby. To calm it down."
Addison didn't look away from her scalpel. "Karev—"
"I'm serious." Alex didn't back down. "Babies in the womb react to sound. If it works, it works."
George hesitated. "Talk about what?"
Alex rolled his shoulders, his voice shifting into an easy, confident rhythm.
"October 30, 1974," he began. "It's the fight known as Rumble in the Jungle."
George hesitated, then—"It's working."
The baby shifted, but the movements slowed.
The monitor settled.
Alex smirked. "Foreman's the favorite to win. He's younger. Stronger."
Addison: "Scalpel."
Alex: "But he's not prepared for what Ali later calls the rope-a-dope. It all starts in the second round."
George's grip held steady.
"He comes out swinging." Alex grinned. "Ali's backed up against the ropes."
Addison cut.
But even as she worked, Addison wasn't taking any chances. She couldn't stake everything on Karev's commentary keeping the baby still.
She glanced up, her voice firm. "Who's free among the attendings? Someone with steady hands."
A scrub nurse immediately rattled off names. "Shepherd's still in surgery. Burke's operating."
Addison asked. "Who else?"
There was a beat of hesitation.
Then Karev spoke up.
"Knight," he said.
Addison's gaze snapped to him.
Karev didn't hesitate. "Dr. Knight has Steady hands—probably on Shepherd's level."
George blinked in shock. Karev never complimented people like that.
And yet—there wasn't a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Just fact.
Addison didn't waste another second. "Page him."
Addison Montgomery didn't let herself hesitate. She worked quickly, methodically. The baby boy had to come out now.
"Retractor," she said sharply, and the scrub nurse placed it into her waiting hand.
With precise, steady movements, Addison deepened the incision into Uterus 1, carefully expanding the opening just enough to maneuver the baby out without damaging the delicate uterine wall.
The amniotic fluid spilled onto the drapes, pooling for a second before a nurse suctioned it away.
"Almost there," Addison muttered.
The baby's head emerged first—dark hair slick with fluid, his tiny features still scrunched in the womb's warmth.
"Fundal pressure," she instructed. A nurse placed a gentle but firm hand on Noelle's abdomen, guiding the infant downward.
A moment later a cry sounded. Weak, but there.
Addison exhaled just slightly.
"Baby boy is out," she confirmed, passing the tiny newborn into the waiting arms of a NICU nurse.
The nurse immediately assessed the APGAR score, drying and stimulating the infant, before wrapping him in warm blankets.
"Breathing on his own," the NICU nurse announced. "We've got him."
Addison nodded, but she wasn't relieved yet.
Because they weren't done.
Not by a long shot.
As she prepared to close Uterus 1, she heard the fetal heart monitor spike.
Something was wrong.
The other baby was still inside.
And Noelle? Her BP was tanking.
"Damn it," Addison swore.
She looked up. "Someone page Knight again. Tell him to run."
Addison pressed down on the uterine wall, trying to keep the rupture contained. The suction wasn't keeping up with the blood loss, and Noelle's pressure was still crashing.
Not yet.
She glanced at the clock. How long had it been since they paged Knight? Too long.
"If he's not here in sixty seconds, we need to cut our losses," she muttered under her breath.
The doors to the operating room swung open with force.
Jamie strode in. His surgical cap was already on, hands lifted slightly as he headed straight for the sterile field without breaking stride.
"What's going on?" His voice was calm, but his eyes were already on Noelle's vitals, the exposed uterus, the fetal monitor blaring its distress.
Addison barely glanced up, her hands still in motion. "Emergency C-section. Baby boy's out, stable. But the mother's BP is dropping fast, and the second baby's in distress."
Jamie took in everything in seconds. The surgical tray, the uterine incision, the amount of blood pooling on the drapes, and the subtle tension in Addison's shoulders.
"Massive hemorrhage?" he asked.
Addison's jaw clenched. "I'm not sure yet. I was about to close the first uterus when she crashed."
Jamie's eyes flicked to the monitor. BP 70/40. Still dropping.
"Damn it."
He stepped next to George, who was still holding Uterus 2, his arms trembling slightly from the strain.
"Dr. O'Malley, I've got it from here," Jamie said, voice firm but steady.
George blinked, swallowing hard. "Right. Okay." He exhaled and slowly released his grip, stepping back.
Jamie didn't hesitate. His hands replaced George's instantly, fingers firm but careful, supporting the delicate structure with ease.
Addison watched the way his hands moved—without hesitation, without second-guessing. Just pure confidence.
Jamie didn't waste time. "Let's confirm the source of the bleed before we move on the second uterus," he said.
Addison nodded. "Agreed."
His hands were already moving. Jamie adjusted his grip, his fingers maneuvering around the uterine wall. His mind worked in calculated precision, already predicting possible sources of the bleed before they could confirm it.
"Retract the first uterus gently," Jamie ordered calmly "I need a clearer view of the myometrium."
A nurse positioned the retractor, and Addison worked beside him, suctioning away the excess blood.
"BP 65/35," an anesthesiologist called out.
Jamie felt the tension in the room tighten like a wire.
"She's still bleeding out," Addison murmured, her gaze shifting between the surgical field and the monitors.
Jamie's eyes tracked the pooling blood, his mind filtering through possibilities at lightning speed.
Vascular injury? A ruptured uterine artery? A torn myometrial vessel from excessive contractions?
He needed to see the bleed. The seconds passed until he Jamie saw it.
"Give me a Satinsky clamp," Jamie ordered, hand already reaching.
The scrub nurse snapped the clamp into his palm.
Jamie placed it just proximal to the rupture, controlling the arterial spurt. The bleeding slowed, but didn't stop. The partial rupture was too distal for a simple clamp—he needed direct arterial repair.
"We're going for a side-bite repair," Jamie announced, glancing at Addison. "I need 6-0 Prolene on a BV-1 needle."
Addison didn't question him. She passed him the suture herself.
"Lap pad," Jamie ordered.
A scrub tech placed it beside him as he carefully dried the field, exposing the damaged section of the uterine artery.
Jamie positioned the needle holder, lining it up perpendicular to the arterial tear.
He used a double-armed, continuous horizontal mattress technique, a method known for reducing suture-line bleeding.
First stitch.
He entered 2mm from the edge, passed the needle through the tunica media, and exited on the opposite side, pulling the Prolene taut.
His hands remained rock steady. Not even a tremor.
The OR was dead silent. No one spoke. Even Addison had paused, watching him work.
Second stitch.
He rotated his wrist, keeping the needle at a 45-degree angle, ensuring optimal vessel wall approximation.
The suture looped cleanly through the endothelial layer, minimizing trauma.
Addison saw it now. The way he anticipated every movement, how he compensated for vessel recoil, how he instinctively knew the exact amount of tension needed.
It was seamless. Efficient. Flawless.
Addison had worked with the best—top fetal surgeons, neonatal specialists, the kind of doctors who made headlines. But watching Jamie now?
He wasn't following anyone's technique. He was making the field his own.
His grip on the Satinsky clamp was effortless, the suture so precisely placed that there was barely a millimeter of excess tissue pinched. The artery took the suture like it had never been torn.
She had seen surgeons with raw talent before. But this wasn't just talent.
This was mastery.
Jamie placed the final knot, securing the repair. He cut the excess suture, then slowly released the Satinsky clamp.
For a second, the OR held its breath.
The artery held. The blood flowed smoothly, no leakage.
BP climbed—65/40, then 75/50.
"Perfusion looks good," Addison murmured, impressed.
Jamie wiped his gloved hand on the sterile drape. Not a single misstep.
That was it. The hemorrhage was controlled. The uterus was still intact.
Jamie exhaled, the adrenaline still burning beneath his skin, but his hands remained steady
The room was still tense, but the worst of the hemorrhage had been contained. Jamie had managed to repair the uterine artery, stopping the critical bleed without resorting to a hysterectomy. Now, their focus shifted to Baby B.
The magnesium sulfate had slowed the contractions, but it wasn't stopping them completely. The risk of preterm labor was still dangerously high, and the second baby was nowhere near viable for delivery.
Baby B needed to stay inside.
Addison had already made her decision.
"We're placing a cerclage," she announced, her voice sharp and decisive. "I need a McDonald cerclage kit, now."
A scrub nurse moved swiftly, setting up the necessary instruments.
Jamie glanced at her, not questioning, not hesitating, just understanding.
Addison appreciated that. Most surgeons, even some OB specialists, would have hesitated before attempting a cerclage at this stage, let alone post-C-section on the other uterus.
But this was her domain. And Jamie Knight? He was keeping up.
"Knight, you assist," Addison instructed.
Jamie gave a slight nod and stepped into place beside her.
The challenge with a cerclage in a patient with two uteri was precise placement. The anatomical variation meant they couldn't just reinforce the cervix as they would in a normal case. They needed to be exact—one wrong suture, and they could compromise blood flow to the fetus.
Addison carefully repositioned the uterus, exposing the cervical os.
"Give me DeLee retractor," she said, extending her gloved hand.
The nurse placed the instrument in her palm, and Addison used it to gently retract the vaginal walls, exposing the cervix more clearly.
Jamie's gaze stayed locked on the field, already anticipating the next move.
"We need to make sure there's no chorioamnionitis before we suture," he said.
Addison nodded, already one step ahead.
"Cervical swab," she instructed. A scrub tech handed her the swab, and she carefully sampled the cervical mucus, handing it off for immediate gram staining and cultures.
A few seconds later, a rapid gram stain result came back negative. No signs of intrauterine infection. They could proceed.
"Okay," Addison confirmed. "No chorio. We place the cerclage."
She reached for the Mersilene tape, a strong synthetic suture, while Jamie prepared the needle holder.
"Knight, lift the bladder slightly," Addison instructed, her hands steady as she positioned the needle.
Jamie carefully retracted the bladder, ensuring there was no tension on the lower uterine segment.
Addison began placing the McDonald cerclage.
The first stitch passed through the posterior cervix, threading through the dense fibrous tissue. She worked quickly, placing the circumferential sutures, looping the Mersilene tape evenly around the cervix to create a purse-string effect.
Jamie monitored her placement closely.
"The tissue looks good," he murmured, keeping his eyes trained on the vascular integrity. "No excessive blanching."
Addison tightened the cerclage, securing the knots in a square fashion to avoid slippage.
"Alright, let's confirm cervical length," she said.
Jamie grabbed the endovaginal probe and positioned the ultrasound.
The screen flickered, displaying the fetus inside Uterus 2.
"Cervical length is holding at 2.8 cm," Jamie announced.
Not perfect, but good enough.
"Funneling?" Addison asked.
Jamie adjusted the probe angle. "Minimal. No major prolapse of the membranes."
"Good." Addison exhaled, relief creeping into her usually composed voice. "That should hold."
She turned to anesthesia. "Increase magnesium to 4 grams per hour and start indomethacin 50mg rectally to suppress any residual contractions."
Anesthesiology confirmed the orders.
The fetal monitor remained steady.
Baby B was still inside.
Addison removed her gloves, finally allowing herself a breath.
She glanced at Jamie, his hands still as steady as they had been from the moment he walked in.
He exhaled through his nose.
The last time he had stitched a bleeding artery, it had been on the battlefield.
But this? This was different. This time, people were finally watching.
For the first time, Addison really saw him. Derek had spoken about him, praised him even. But now she understood why.
Jamie wasn't just good.
He was exceptional. And for the first time in a long time, Addison found herself wondering:
Had she just met the next great surgeon?
Jamie exhaled, rolling his shoulders back slightly as the tension of the surgery began to fade. The repair held. The cerclage was in place. Noelle was stable.
Baby B was still inside.
For now, they had won.
Jamie exhaled, rolling his shoulders back slightly as the tension of the surgery began to fade. The repair held. The cerclage was in place. Noelle was stable.
Baby B was still inside.
For now, they had won.
He peeled off his gloves, dropping them into the sterile bin before reaching for a fresh towel. The hum of the OR faded slightly as he took a step back, his mind already shifting—processing, cataloging, critiquing.
Then, something made him glance up.
The observation gallery.
Behind the glass, Webber stood watching.
Jamie stilled for a second. Webber's expression was unreadable, arms crossed and face impassive. But Jamie had seen that look before.
The Chief wasn't just watching. He was assessing. Calculating.
But it wasn't just that.
It was recognition. Jamie wasn't some rising star, a young attending proving himself. He was already there.
Jamie exhaled slowly, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. Right. He was still on his one-day punishment tour as an intern. Not a resident. Not an attending. Just a guy in scrubs.
At least, officially.
Jamie turned on his heel and pushed through the OR doors.
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Jamie barely had time to untie his mask before Webber spoke.
"I don't know what to do with you."
Jamie blinked, still riding the adrenaline from surgery. His surgical cap was still on, his scrubs stained with traces of amniotic fluid and blood. But Webber? The Chief looked at him with something between frustration and something else—something Jamie couldn't quite place.
Webber exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.
"One moment, you disappear for a week. No calls. No explanation. Nothing." His voice was even, but Jamie could hear the edge underneath. "And the next moment, you walk into the OR, take control of a crashing patient, and perform a uterine artery repair and cerclage better than most department heads."
Jamie didn't flinch. He had expected this conversation.
Instead of answering, he just held Webber's gaze.
The Chief sighed, running a hand over his bald head. "I should suspend you. I should have your ass on probation for the stunt you pulled." He shook his head again. "But then you do something like this."
Jamie didn't break eye contact. "She needed help. So I helped." His voice was steady, even.
Webber let out a short, humorless laugh. "You say that like it's simple."
Jamie just tilted his head slightly. "Isn't it?"
Webber's lips pressed together, but there was something else behind his eyes now. Something more than frustration.
He was watching Jamie, really watching him.
Then, after a long pause, Webber exhaled.
"Watching you in there... it reminded me of Ellis Grey. "
Jamie blinked. His posture remained still, but something inside him tightened.
Ellis Grey. The Ellis Grey.
Jamie had read about her. He had watched her once—years ago, back when he was a med student at Harvard, when he had shadowed a visiting surgical team in Boston. She had performed a Whipple like it was second nature. He had never forgotten it.
But this? This was the first time Webber had ever compared him to her.
Jamie wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.
Webber sighed, crossing his arms. "Ellis was impossible. She pushed limits. Didn't care about rules. And she was always right." He let out a breath. "Watching you in there, I saw that same instinct."
Jamie didn't know why, but those words settled something inside him.
"Inside that OR, the world slowed. Like there was only that scalpel in your hand." He shook his head slightly. "It looked magical. Like art."
Jamie stayed quiet.
"I knew you were good," Webber continued, "but you're not even thirty-five yet." His voice was softer now, less frustration, more something else. Curiosity? Wonder?
"I really want to see where you'll be in ten, twenty years."
Jamie swallowed. He wasn't used to this, praise from Webber. He didn't know how to respond to it.
Webber studied him for a moment before nodding. "Do you know who Meredith Grey is?"
Jamie frowned slightly. "Of course, she's one of Bailey's interns. And I was shadowing her today."
Webber's expression didn't change. "She's Ellis Grey's daughter."
Jamie stilled.
For a second, he didn't move.
Meredith?
Jamie had always assumed it was just a coincidence. Grey wasn't exactly a rare last name. But now?
Now it made sense.
The resemblance, the way she assessed a patient. That methodical approach, completely opposite of Stevens emotional way. The way she held a scalpel—he should've noticed it sooner.
Jamie pulled in a slow breath, processing.
But Webber wasn't finished.
"You and I both know that talent like yours doesn't just happen." Webber's voice was quieter now. "It comes from something. A hunger. A drive." He exhaled. "I saw it in Ellis. And I see it in you."
Jamie didn't say anything.
Webber asked. "So let me ask you something, Dr. Knight. Where does yours come from?"
Jamie's stomach twisted.
He could've given Webber the truth. Could've told him about his mother. Her legacy, her death. 9/11. About losing his father. About the war, the surgeries, the blood. The nightmares.
But he didn't.
Instead, he just met Webber's gaze and said, "You already know."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, Webber sighed. "Tomorrow, you're back to being my attending. If you don't want to talk to me it's fine. But you should talk to someone."
Jamie nodded once.
Webber gave him one last look before turning away.
Jamie exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.
Meredith Grey.
Ellis Grey's daughter.
Damn.
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The faint echo of surgical instruments clinking against steel filled the dimly lit OR. Unlike most nights, the table in the center wasn't prepped for surgery. Instead, Richard Webber sat at its edge, shirt unbuttoned, needle in hand, struggling to sew a button back in place.
He muttered under his breath, squinting at the thread.
The door creaked open.
Derek Shepherd stepped inside, pausing in the doorway with a smirk.
"That's not going to stay on." Derek tilted his head, watching the Chief fumble with the stitch. "You're giving it too much slack."
Webber didn't look up. "You're blocking my light."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "Think of it as a basic corner stitch."
Webber huffed, frustrated, yanking the needle through the fabric with far more force than necessary. "I can figure out how to sew on my own buttons, thank you. I am a surgeon."
Derek fought back a grin. "Right."
A long pause.
Webber sighed in defeat, finally dropping the half-sewn button and rubbing a hand over his face. "Oh, for God's sake. You sew this on for me, and I'll get rid of Addison and Sloan."
Derek's eyes lit up. "Really?"
Webber shot him a look. "No."
Derek rolled his eyes but grabbed the needle anyway. "Well, I'll do it anyway."
Silence stretched between them, the tension in the room shifting into something quieter.
Webber exhaled heavily. "So, I heard you've got a sister wandering the halls." He watched Derek thread the needle with practiced ease. "She planning on moving in too?"
Derek sighed. "I hope not."
Webber hummed. "Derek, I know it's been hard for you."
Derek didn't answer immediately. His hands were steady as he looped the thread through the fabric, tying off the stitch effortlessly.
Finally, he muttered, "He was like my brother."
Webber glanced at him.
"I have four sisters, Chief. Four very annoying sisters." Derek let out a humorless chuckle. "Mark was my brother. It's hard."
Webber nodded slowly, leaning back against the table. "Divorce isn't all it's cracked up to be, is it?"
Derek huffed a quiet laugh. "I just want it to be easy. To move on."
Webber studied him. "But you're in a surprising amount of pain."
Derek didn't reply.
Instead, he tightened the stitch, looping the last knot into place.
Webber sighed.
"You and Adele?" Derek nodded toward the button. "You're sewing on a button for the first time in your life. What does that tell you?"
Webber shook his head. "Technically, you're sewing."
Derek smirked. "I'm just saying."
They fell into silence again.
Then Webber shifted, exhaling through his nose as if debating something. "You worked with Jamie in New York, right?"
Derek paused. He wasn't expecting that.
"Yeah," he said, carefully. "For a while."
Webber nodded. "I watched him in the OR today."
Derek's grip tightened on the needle for just a second. He didn't need to ask. He already knew what Webber was going to say.
"And?" Derek prompted.
Webber shook his head slightly, still turning over the memory in his mind. "I don't know what to do with that kid."
Derek smirked. "Join the club."
Webber ignored him. "One moment, he disappears without a word. No calls. No explanation. Then he walks into my OR and performs a uterine artery repair and cerclage like he's been doing it for twenty years." He exhaled. "Damn near looked like magic."
Derek didn't seem surprised. "He's good."
Webber narrowed his eyes. "He's more than good, Shepherd. He's—" He shook his head. "I don't even think we've seen the full scope of what he can do yet."
Derek leaned against the table, considering it.
"I've seen him work miracles before," he admitted.
Webber was quiet for a long moment, then glanced back at Derek. "I also saw something else."
Derek knew what he meant before he even said it. "The mask."
Webber nodded. "He's holding it together, but it's cracking." His voice was softer now. "Whatever happened to him out there—whatever happened before that week he vanished—he hasn't processed it yet."
Derek let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair.
"Pushing him to talk won't work," he finally said. "It'll only make him close up again."
Webber studied him.
Derek hesitated, but then he added, "Even I don't know everything, Chief. I know his parents' deaths hit him hard. And then he disappeared for six years." His voice dropped slightly. "He's in Seattle because of his grandmother. That's it. That's all I know."
Webber was quiet.
Derek exhaled. "Whatever Jamie went through, he's not ready to talk about it." His jaw tightened. "So don't push him."
Webber let that sink in, but after a moment, he shook his head.
"Where does it come from, though?" His voice was quieter, but curious. "That kind of talent. That kind of instinct. It's not just raw skill, Shepherd. It's more than that."
Derek hesitated. Then, he sighed. "His mother."
Webber looked up.
Derek's expression was unreadable. "She was a surgeon. Died in a car crash when he was in high school." He swallowed. "After that, it was like someone lit a fire under him. He sped through school, faster than anyone I'd ever seen. Like someone was chasing him."
Webber exhaled. "And you met him in residency?"
Derek nodded. "Yeah. By the time I met him, he was already a rising star. Cocky, confident, sarcastic, a pain in the ass—but he was good."
Derek let out a small breath of amusement. "No, he was better than good. He was the kind of surgeon who made the rest of us look like we were still in med school."
Webber raised a brow.
Derek nodded. "He practically lived in the hospital. He worked harder than anyone else. After a full shift, when the rest of us went home exhausted, he went to the skills lab. Every night. For hours. Because 'good' wasn't good enough."
Derek glanced away for a second. "He had the drive. The skill. He knew he was going to be great. And he was right."
Webber listened silently.
Derek's voice dropped slightly. "And then his dad died."
Derek's voice stayed even. "He was a first responder. 9/11."
A heavy silence stretched between them.
"That broke him." Derek exhaled. "Like it was the last straw."
Webber stayed quiet.
"And then one day, he was just… gone." Derek shook his head. "No calls. No emails. Nothing. Just his family's lawyer, informing the hospital that Jamie had joined the Army and disappeared."
Webber's gaze flickered.
"Six years, Chief." Derek let out a slow breath. "Nothing. And then last month, out of nowhere, he calls me."
Webber raised a brow.
"He was in Seattle." Derek's lips twitched slightly. "Asked if I wanted to get a drink."
Webber huffed a quiet chuckle. "Just like that?"
Derek nodded, smirking slightly. "Just like that."
Webber shook his head.
Derek tied off the last stitch and flicked the button lightly. "There. Good as new."
Webber chuckled. "Maybe you should've been a tailor, Shepherd."
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The OR doors had barely swung shut behind Cristina Yang before Bailey stepped forward, her expression tight, controlled—but unmistakably wounded.
"Dr. Burke," she said evenly. "Could we have a moment alone?"
Burke turned, still removing his surgical cap, eyebrows lifting slightly at her tone. Cristina had disappeared down the hall, and the scrub nurses were dispersing. They were alone.
Bailey exhaled sharply, arms crossing over her chest. "I didn't realize you were one of them."
Burke blinked. "Excuse me?"
"One of the doctors who have doubts about my abilities." Her voice was calm. Too calm. That was the thing about Bailey—when she was actually angry, she didn't yell. She got quiet.
Burke frowned slightly. "Miranda, I'm not—"
"My name was erased from the board." Bailey's eyes didn't leave his. "I have to assume that was you."
Burke hesitated for just a fraction of a second—but Bailey caught it.
Her chest tightened.
"I just…" She exhaled. "I need to know why."
Burke didn't answer immediately. He held her gaze, and for the first time, Bailey saw something there. Not doubt. Not hesitation. Something else.
A secret.
"I need you to tell me," Bailey said, her voice softer now, but firmer. "Why didn't you want me in on your surgery?"
Burke replied. "I'm afraid I just couldn't use you."
Bailey inhaled slowly.
She nodded, forcing down the lump in her throat.
She had worked too damn hard for this. To prove she was still the same surgeon she had always been. She hadn't taken time off. She had come back the second she could.
But it hadn't been enough.
"I understand," she said, her voice clipped.
And then she turned, walking away before he could see the hurt in her eyes.
Burke watched her go.
And he didn't stop her.
Because Cristina had erased Bailey's name from the board.
And Burke? Burke was covering for her.
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Nancy leaned against the nurses' station, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with herself. "You should have seen the two uteruses," she said, shaking her head. "Unbelievable. And a cute baby to boot."
Derek sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm glad you're enjoying your trip."
Nancy smirked. "Oh, Derek, I'm going. I'm on a plane back in two hours."
Derek barely reacted. "So, you're going to report back to Mom that…?"
Nancy shrugged, her tone light but knowing. "That you're you. Still running circles around all the women in your life." She tilted her head. "But that's to be expected with four sisters and a dead dad."
Derek let out a breath, frowning. "I'm not running circles."
Nancy arched a perfectly manicured brow. "Oh please. Can you even remember the last time you were alone? You've never been single, Derek." She gestured vaguely in the direction of the hospital. "I mean, you're fine. But you're not happy. And you're not going to get happy until you get some space. You just need to get away. Away from Addie, away from the intern, just away. Think about what you want."
Derek shook his head, amused despite himself. "Kathleen's the shrink, Nancy, not you."
Nancy rolled her eyes, checking her watch. "Yeah, well, someone's gotta say it."
She adjusted the strap of her purse, then paused, glancing at him. Her smirk softened, just slightly.
"And take care of Baby Jamie."
Derek blinked. "Jamie doesn't need taking care of."
Nancy scoffed. "Oh, please. You told me yourself—he's only just started opening up again. And from what I saw? That kid's barely holding it together."
Derek's shoulders tensed.
Nancy sighed. "He disappeared for six years, Derek. No calls. No letters. And now he's here, back in a hospital like he never left, pretending he's fine." She met his gaze. "We both know that's not how trauma works."
Derek didn't answer.
Nancy exhaled. "Just… keep an eye on him, okay? He's not you. He doesn't have four sisters to annoy him into processing his feelings."
Derek let out a small breath of laughter. "Lucky him."
Nancy smiled, but there was something sad in it. "Yeah."
She adjusted her bag over her shoulder, turning to leave.
Derek hesitated, then said, quieter, "Nancy. Thanks for flying out here."
Nancy glanced back, just for a second.
"It was…" Derek hesitated, then simply said, "Thanks."
Nancy gave him a half-smile, then disappeared down the hall.
Derek stood there for a long moment, exhaling.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.
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The steady beeping of the monitors filled the quiet room as Noelle slowly stirred from anesthesia. The dim lighting cast soft shadows against the walls, and the faint hum of the hospital echoed in the background.
Her eyelids fluttered, a weak groan escaping as she tried to orient herself. Panic flickered in her drowsy eyes as she shifted slightly, her body sluggish from the lingering effects of the medication.
Her voice was hoarse when she spoke. "What happened?" Her breath hitched. "Did everything go okay? Are my babies okay?"
Addison stepped closer, her tone even, reassuring. "The surgery went very well. You have a healthy baby boy," she said gently, keeping her voice calm. "And the labor stopped on our little girl. She's going to be just fine."
Noelle exhaled in relief, but then, almost immediately, her expression shifted. A different kind of worry crept in as her gaze darted around the room.
"And Greg?" she whispered, eyes searching. "Has Greg come back yet?"
Addison's face softened, but she didn't hesitate. "No, Noelle. I'm sorry. Greg isn't here."
Noelle's body sagged against the bed, exhaustion taking over as her eyes drifted shut once more.
Addison watched her for a beat before turning to George. "I want an update every half hour," she instructed. Her voice was steady, professional, but there was an unmistakable thread of concern beneath it.
Minutes passed before Noelle stirred again.
Her eyes blinked open, glazed with post-anesthetic confusion. "What happened?" she murmured, her words slightly slurred. "My babies?"
Addison gave her a small, reassuring smile. "They're just fine, Noelle. You're just coming out of anesthesia."
Addison exhaled, glancing at George. "Be sure to alert me to any fetal distress."
George nodded, scribbling notes on the chart as the monitors continued their steady rhythm.
A few moments later, a small sound escaped Noelle's lips.
Her eyes fluttered open once more.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice weaker now, as if even waking up was exhausting.
Addison leaned in, her voice gentle but firm. "Your babies are fine, Noelle. Everything is okay."
Noelle's breathing slowed slightly, her mind still struggling to catch up to reality. But then, her voice cracked as she asked again, "Is Greg back yet?"
There was a pause.
"I'm right here."
Noelle's eyes snapped toward the doorway.
Greg stood there, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were locked on her. His voice was softer than she had ever heard it.
Noelle swallowed. "Hi."
Greg took a step forward, hesitant but steady. "Hi," he murmured.
He reached for her hand, giving it a squeeze.
"I saw our son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "He's amazing."
Noelle blinked rapidly, fresh tears welling in her eyes.
"But how's our little girl?" Greg asked, his tone barely above a whisper.
Addison glanced between them, then nodded.
"She's strong," Addison said. "And she's still with us."
Greg let out a slow breath, his grip on Noelle's hand tightening.
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Meredith leaned against the nurses' station, arms crossed over her chest, watching Derek with a guarded expression.
"So your sister really doesn't like me," she said, her voice carefully neutral.
Derek exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. It's just... she's from the East Coast."
Meredith let out a short, humorless laugh. "Right. Because that explains everything."
Derek hesitated. "I should have called."
"But you didn't," Meredith said, her voice even, but there was no mistaking the weight behind her words.
Derek's jaw tightened slightly. "I want us to work. I do. It's just..." He sighed, glancing away for a brief second before meeting her eyes again. "It's complicated. I think I need a little time to—"
"Take some space," Meredith finished for him, her tone unreadable.
Derek swallowed. "Yeah. To clear my head."
Meredith nodded slowly, something flickering across her face before she masked it. "Yeah. Okay."
A beat of silence.
"Okay," Derek echoed.
Whatever had been left hanging between them shifted, uncertain, unresolved, but acknowledged.
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Jamie sat in the driver's seat, fingers gripping the wheel, his forehead resting against it.
His pulse had finally slowed. The adrenaline had burned off.
And the exhaustion hit him all at once.
The weight of the past month—hell, the past six years, settled into his bones like lead.
His mind drifted back, unbidden, to Burke's hands in the OR. The tremor. The subtle compensation.
The way Jamie had seen it immediately.
Responsibility, he had said.
Surgery isn't just about skill. It's about responsibility.
The words echoed back at him, but now, they felt different.
Jamie inhaled sharply. His grip on the wheel tightened.
Because he saw it now.
The late nights. The extra shifts. The cases he took just to keep moving. The way he ignored his own limits because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering.
Burke had been compensating for a tremor.
And Jamie?
Jamie had been compensating for everything else.
His stomach twisted. Had he been doing the same damn thing this whole time?
The realization settled uncomfortably in his chest.
He wasn't shaking, wasn't hesitating in the OR. His skill was still intact. For now.
But how long until that changed? How long before he pushed himself too far?
Before he became Rhodes?
Jamie squeezed his eyes shut for a second. Then, before he could overthink it, he pulled out his phone.
The call rang twice before his grandmother picked up.
"Jamie?"
Her voice was soft, familiar.
Jamie exhaled. "I'm stopping by," he said simply.
She didn't ask why. She didn't need to.
"I'll put the kettle on," she said warmly.
Jamie nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "Yeah. Thanks."
He hung up, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, and finally turned the key.
As the engine purred to life, one thought remained, clear and sharp.
I can't keep doing this.
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Jamie stepped through the grand doors of Knight Manor, the weight of the day still pressing against his shoulders.
As always, James was there, ever composed, ever the same.
"She's in the library, Master James," the butler said with a knowing smile.
Jamie gave a small nod, not breaking his stride as he made his way through the familiar halls.
The library doors creaked softly as he pushed them open, and there she was—his grandmother, seated in her favorite chair, a book resting on her lap.
Jamie exhaled.
Finally letting himself breathe.
She didn't ask why he was there. She never did.
Instead, she simply stood, crossing the room with the same grace she always carried, and pulled him into a warm embrace.
She smelled like home—aged books, lavender, and the faintest hint of cinnamon, like the cookies she used to bake when he was little.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
She just held him, her hand moving gently up and down his back, grounding him.
Then, she pulled back just enough to cup his face, studying him the way only a grandmother could.
"You look exhausted," she murmured.
Jamie let out a quiet, breathy laugh. "Yeah," he admitted. "Feels that way too."
She gave him a knowing look and gently took his hand, leading him into the sitting room.
The place hadn't changed. Not in years. Dark wood paneling, old portraits lining the walls, a fireplace that still carried the faint scent of burnt cedar.
Jamie sat down on the couch, rubbing a hand down his face. He didn't even realize how heavy his limbs felt until he finally stopped moving.
His grandmother sat beside him, waiting, patient as ever.
And maybe that's why the words finally came.
"This was supposed to be a fresh start," Jamie admitted. His voice was quieter than usual, as if he wasn't sure how to say the words out loud. "But it doesn't feel like one."
She stayed silent, letting him speak.
"I left New York. Left the Army. Came here to Seattle thinking I could just…start over." He shook his head. "But nothing feels different. Not after last week."
His hands curled slightly in his lap.
"I keep working, I keep moving, I keep doing what I've always done, but—" He said slowly. "I'm so tired, Nana."
The words just fell out of him.
She reached for his hand, squeezing gently. "Then rest, my love."
Jamie huffed out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "I can't. I try, but I—" He stopped. "Sometimes, I just want to put everything down. Just stop."
The confession hung in the air.
His grandmother squeezed his hand tighter.
"But then I remember the good I've done. I remember why I love medicine, why I keep doing this. And suddenly, stopping doesn't feel like an option anymore. It' part of who I am. I may have started because of mom, but it's so much more now."
Silence stretched between them.
"We had a case today. A woman with uterus didelphys—two uteruses, carrying two babies. She went into early labor. One baby had to be delivered, but the other needed to stay inside."
His grandmother listened, her expression soft but unreadable. She had always been good at that—listening without interrupting.
Jamie exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It got complicated. She started bleeding out on the table—uterine artery rupture. I stepped in, repaired the vessel, stabilized her, and then we placed a cerclage to keep the second baby inside."
"You saved them," she said quietly.
Jamie nodded. "Yeah."
"but it didn't feel good," he admitted after a moment. "It felt like... I had to do it. Like there wasn't another option." He rubbed his hands together, shaking his head. "And I wasn't even supposed to be in that OR. Webber told me I couldn't operate today."
His grandmother sighed, her gaze full of understanding. "But you did it anyway."
Jamie let out a quiet laugh, tilting his head back against the chair. "Yeah. I did."
She smiled knowingly. "Just like your mother would have."
Jamie stiffened slightly but didn't argue. Because they both knew it was true.
His mother would've done the same thing. Had done the same thing. Countless times. Pushing past limits, stepping in when others hesitated, saving lives because she couldn't not save them.
And yet—she had still been taken from him.
Jamie let out a slow breath, running a hand down his face. "The chief compared me to Ellis Grey today."
His grandmother's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Ellis Grey?"
Jamie nodded. "Said watching me in that OR reminded him of her. The way she worked, the way she... shut everything else out when she operated." He swallowed. "I watched one of her surgeries once. Back when I was in med school. I remember thinking she was... unstoppable."
His grandmother hummed in thought, but didn't comment right away.
Jamie sat forward again, his hands clasped together. "But the thing is... Ellis burned out. She was brilliant, but she—" He shook his head. "I don't want to wake up one day and realize I've driven myself into the ground the way she did."
"And yet, you're doing exactly that."
Jamie's fingers tightened slightly.
His grandmother leaned forward, resting her hand over his. "Tell me, Jamie... when was the last time you truly let yourself rest?"
Jamie opened his mouth, then closed it.
He had no answer.
Because for as long as he could remember, he had been running.
And he wasn't sure if he even knew how to stop.
Silence stretched between them.
Then, Jamie's gaze drifted toward the corner of the room, catching on something he hadn't noticed when he first walked in.
A piano.
Not the one in his apartment—the one that had belonged to his mother, the one she had played for him when he was little, when the world still felt safe.
But this one—it felt familiar.
His grandmother must have noticed because she gave a small, knowing smile.
"This was your mother's, too," she said softly. "She used to play it whenever she visited. Not as often as the one in your home, but still—she loved it."
Jamie swallowed, his throat tightening.
The pull was there—it always was when he saw a piano.
The urge to sit down, to let his fingers find the keys, to play until his mind stopped racing.
His grandmother squeezed his hand one more time before letting go.
"Go on, sweetheart."
Jamie hesitated. Just for a second.
Then, he stood, crossing the room.
His fingers drifted across the smooth, aged wood, tracing the edge of the lid before he finally sat down on the bench.
For a long moment, he simply let his hands rest over the keys.
Then, almost without thinking, he pressed a note.
A soft, low hum filled the space, vibrating through his fingertips.
Jamie exhaled.
And then, slowly, he began to play.
The melody was one he hadn't touched since he was a child. Since before the accident. Before everything fell apart.
His mother had written it herself.
A song she had never finished.
Jamie closed his eyes, letting his hands move on instinct. The notes were gentle at first, uncertain, like pulling memories from the depths of his mind. Then, as he found the rhythm, the music swelled—warm, melancholic, bittersweet.
His grandmother sat quietly, watching, listening.
Jamie wasn't sure how long he played.
Maybe minutes. Maybe hours.
But for the first time in what felt like forever, the world slowed.
And for just a little while he felt his mind calming. The racing thoughts that were always present slowed until all that remained was a calm lake.
The notes filled the space around them, wrapping the room in something that felt heavier than nostalgia.
It felt like loss.
Like love.
Like everything in between.
His grandmother sat silently, hands folded in her lap, listening as if the sound itself were something fragile. Something sacred.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
She wiped it away quickly, as fast as it had come, before Jamie could see it.
But he felt it. He didn't stop. Not yet.
The song continued, rising and falling, each note carved into his bones from a time when things were simpler. When his mother would sit beside him on the bench, her fingers guiding his, her voice soft as she hummed the unfinished melody.
He played every note he remembered.
And when the last chord settled into silence, Jamie let his hands rest on the keys.
Still, his chest felt tight.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, finally, Jamie exhaled and let his hands fall into his lap.
The song was over.
But in some ways, it still wasn't finished.
The silence lingered, thick with memories and unsaid things. Jamie's fingers still hovered over the piano keys, as if holding onto the last note would keep the moment from slipping away.
Then, his grandmother spoke.
"You know, I never wanted your mother to marry your father."
Jamie's hands stilled.
He turned his head, studying her face—her carefully composed expression, the slight tremble in her fingers where they rested on the arm of the chair.
"I thought he was wrong for her," she admitted, her voice softer than usual. "Not because he was unkind. Not because he didn't love her. But because their worlds were too different."
Jamie said nothing.
She let out a quiet sigh. "Your mother… she was always meant for greatness. She had that fire in her, even as a child. So brilliant, so determined. But she was also soft in ways she never let people see. And I was terrified that loving him, marrying him, would make her give up pieces of herself."
She paused, collecting herself.
"But then, she had you."
Jamie swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
His grandmother gave him a small, sad smile. "And I saw something I never expected. She didn't lose herself—she found something more. She poured everything she was into you. She made sure you knew you were loved, that you had everything you needed to chase whatever dreams you wanted."
Jamie exhaled slowly, staring down at the worn keys beneath his fingertips.
"For a long time, I was too proud to admit I was wrong," she murmured. "I judged too quickly. I came around eventually, when I saw what they had together."
Jamie looked up at her then.
She reached out, covering his hand with her own, giving it a firm squeeze.
"But I will never stop being grateful," she whispered. "Because even though I lost her too soon… I still have you."
Jamie felt something in his chest tighten, his heart caught between the past and the present.
For so long, he had carried the weight of his parents' deaths alone—defined by their legacies, by what they had left behind. But here, now, he realized something else.
He was their legacy.
Jamie swallowed hard, his throat tight. The weight of her words settled deep in his chest, pressing against something he hadn't let himself feel in a long time.
He cleared his throat, forcing himself to stand. His chair scraped softly against the polished wood floor as he stepped away from the piano.
"I should get some rest," he murmured, his voice quieter than usual.
His grandmother didn't try to stop him. She only nodded, watching him with knowing eyes.
Jamie turned, walking toward the door with slow, measured steps. He placed a hand on the handle, hesitating for just a second before pulling it open.
As he stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, he let the door close behind him with a soft click.
And then—only then—did he allow himself a moment.
His hand came up, fingers brushing against his cheek, wiping away the tear that had slipped free.
Jamie let out a slow, uneven breath before squaring his shoulders and making his way toward his chambers.
Jamie lay on his bed, arms resting loosely at his sides, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark except for the soft glow of moonlight filtering in through the curtains, casting long shadows across the walls.
Exhaustion clung to him, bone-deep and unrelenting, but sleep didn't come immediately. His mind still hummed with the echoes of the day—the surgery, Webber's words, the weight of his grandmother's quiet understanding.
And the piano.
His fingers still tingled with the ghost of the notes he had played, the unfinished melody of his mother's song lingering in his mind like a whisper from the past.
Jamie let out a slow breath, turning his head slightly to glance at the empty space beside him.
He had spent so many years moving forward, chasing the next goal, the next challenge, the next surgery. But now, lying here in the stillness, with nothing to distract him, the past felt closer than ever.
Maybe Webber was right. Maybe Derek was right.
Maybe he was running.
His eyes drifted closed.
For the first time in a long time, Jamie let himself be still.
And as sleep finally pulled him under, the last thing he heard was the faint memory of his mother's voice, humming the melody he had played tonight, just before everything changed.