"Did you notice anything going on with Burke?" George muttered to Alex, still rubbing his jaw from the scuffle.
Alex barely looked up as he fixed his fishing line. "No."
George frowned, glancing toward Burke, who was a little further down the bank, still fishing.
"Because before, I thought I saw…"
Alex snorted. "What are you doing? You don't use bait when you're casting. It's going to fall off when it hits the water."
George huffed. "Here. What you want to do—"
But before he could finish, Alex cut in.
"She's sleeping with Sloan, dude."
George blinked, completely thrown off. "What?"
Alex didn't even hesitate. "Torres. She's doing Sloan."
George froze. "No, she's not."
Alex shrugged. "Yeah, she is."
And just like that, the fight was back on.
Behind them, Derek and Burke were still watching from the sidelines.
"People moving, chatting, laughing, that sort of thing," Derek continued, as if nothing was happening. "That sort of thing that lets the fish know they're not alone."
Burke gave him a dry look. "So I invited other people."
Derek shot him a glare. "This is not a frat party."
They turned back toward the mess behind them just in time to see George and Alex rolling in the dirt again.
Chief Webber had officially lost his patience. "Hey! What are you guys doing? Break it up!"
But before either of them could so much as breathe a response, Webber crossed his arms, looking completely unimpressed. "I don't condone fighting. I don't like fighting. I think it's foolish." He let the words hang. "But you two idiots seem determined to beat the hell out of each other. So if you're going to do it, you're going to do it by my rules."
George wiped his lip, eyes narrowing. "Rules?"
Webber nodded. "Yes, O'Malley. Rules—to protect your hands so you don't do irreparable damage."
Alex cracked his neck. "You're dead."
Webber ignored him. "Damage that would end your careers before they even started. So with that in mind, we're going to do open-handed combat."
Alex and George both looked equally offended.
"A slap fight?"
Webber didn't even blink. "Open-handed combat. No scratching."
Derek scoffed. "This is ridiculous. Karev will kill him."
Burke shrugged. "Not necessarily."
Webber continued as if nothing was happening. "No punching, no kicking, no wrestling moves of any kind. Are there any questions?"
George frowned. "That doesn't leave us with much."
Webber ignored him again. "Alright."
Burke smirked slightly. "O'Malley's a scrapper."
Derek rolled his eyes. "A scrapper? He's going to get destroyed."
Burke was still watching with amusement. "He's tougher than he looks. Silent but deadly."
Derek groaned. "This is immature and stupid. I think you'd agree with me."
Burke shook his head. "They're letting off some steam."
Derek sighed. "This is why I should have come alone."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jamie pushed open the heavy wooden door to the cabin, stepping inside with the familiarity of someone who had walked these floors a thousand times before. The air inside carried the scent of aged wood, faint traces of old cigar smoke—his father's, no doubt—and something unmistakably home.
It had been years.
And yet, nothing had changed.
The furniture was just as it had been, the old leather armchairs still worn in the same places, the large stone fireplace dark and unlit. A few dust particles drifted lazily in the shafts of afternoon light filtering through the curtains.
Jamie exhaled.
He didn't linger. He moved with purpose, heading straight toward the old wooden cabinet near the back of the room. His father had always kept the hunting equipment locked away in there—rifles, knives, even some of the gear from his Navy days.
The metal lock was rusted but still functional. Jamie reached for the key, knowing exactly where it would be. Beneath the third floorboard from the fireplace, right where his dad always kept it.
He crouched down, pried the board loose with ease, and there it was—a small brass key, untouched by time.
Jamie grabbed it and stood, unlocking the cabinet with a quiet click.
Inside, everything was exactly as he remembered.
A well-maintained Remington 700 bolt-action rifle sat in the center, its barrel polished, the scope still mounted. He grabbed the Remington, slinging the strap over his shoulder.
Next, the essentials—his father's old hunting knife, a well-worn K-Bar that had seen its share of wilderness; a pack with ammunition, rope, and a small first-aid kit; a thermos that he filled with fresh water from the sink.
He pulled on a thick hunting jacket, adjusting the fit. His father's, again. It was slightly looser on him now than it had been when he was younger, but the weight of it felt grounding.
Jamie paused only once—his eyes flickering to the framed picture on the nearby shelf.
It was a photograph of him and his father, taken here at the cabin when he was about twelve. His dad had an arm slung around him, both of them grinning, proud, standing over the first buck Jamie had ever taken down.
"A man should know how to survive," his father had always said.
Jamie swallowed, then turned away, shoving those thoughts deep down as he shut the cabinet.
Without another glance, he stepped out of the cabin, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Outside, the sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the clearing. The sound of distant arguing—probably George and Alex still bickering—drifted faintly through the trees, but Jamie ignored it.
This was what he needed. The quiet. The focus. The discipline of the hunt.
He adjusted his grip on the rifle and stepped into the treeline, disappearing into the wilderness.
The forest stretched wide and deep around him, towering pines casting long shadows over the forest floor. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of damp earth and pine needles. Jamie moved silently, his steps instinctual, placing his boots lightly over the leaves to avoid unnecessary noise.
It came back to him effortlessly—the way to walk, the way to listen. How to let the forest speak.
"Don't rush, Jamie."
His father's voice echoed in his mind, crisp and steady like the wind threading through the trees.
Jamie inhaled slowly, tightening his grip around the Remington 700. He moved forward, scanning the ground for tracks.
"Hunting isn't about pulling the trigger." His father's voice had always carried that even authority, the kind that settled into a person, made them listen. "It's about patience. Control. Respect."
Twelve-year-old Jamie had been impatient back then, always eager, always itching for the thrill of the hunt. He had wanted to impress his father, to prove he could do it.
His father had taken him out into these very woods, kneeling beside him in the underbrush, pointing at the faint imprints in the dirt.
"See that?" His dad had whispered, barely audible. "That's a fresh track. Buck. Maybe 200 pounds. Look at the edges—sharp, not weathered. He passed through here not long ago."
Jamie could still remember the way his father's hand had hovered over the tracks, fingers barely grazing the earth, like he was reading a story only he could understand.
"You don't chase the deer." His father had looked at him then, sharp-eyed but patient. "You let the deer come to you."
Jamie paused in the present, kneeling beside a fresh set of tracks.
His father would've been proud.
The print was deep, distinct—the outline of a hoof still crisp in the damp soil. Jamie shifted slightly, brushing the dirt with his fingertips. Judging by the spacing, this wasn't just any deer. A buck. Likely a large one.
He straightened slowly, scanning the surrounding area. The undergrowth was disturbed in places, the ferns slightly trampled—a trail leading deeper into the forest.
He exhaled, adjusting the rifle strap across his shoulder, then followed the tracks.
The world around him quieted, the distant sounds of his so-called camping companions fading into nothing.
It was just him and the hunt.
Jamie followed the tracks carefully, stepping lightly over the uneven terrain, his breaths even. The forest was thick here, the trees stretching high, their canopies filtering the late afternoon sunlight into golden streams. He moved without thinking—without hesitation—his mind instinctually processing every detail, every sign of movement.
Then, he saw it.
The buck stood near the entrance of a rocky cave, partially hidden by the thick brush. A powerful animal—strong, broad-shouldered, with an impressive set of antlers. It was standing alert, ears flicking, muscles tensed, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
Jamie exhaled, slow and controlled, raising the rifle.
The weight of it was familiar in his hands. He adjusted his stance, steadying himself, finger resting against the trigger.
He had the shot.
A clean one.
One squeeze, and the deer wouldn't feel a thing.
He inhaled, steadying his pulse, focusing on the vital spot just behind the shoulder.
Then—movement.
A flash of brown.
Jamie's breath hitched slightly as another figure stepped into view—a smaller deer. A young fawn, its legs still awkward, hesitating at the edge of the clearing. And behind it, stepping into the filtered light, a doe.
Jamie's grip on the rifle tightened.
A family.
Jamie knew the rules—you don't take the leader of the herd, you don't take a young one, and you don't take a mother with a dependent fawn. His father had drilled that into him from the first time he held a rifle.
"Hunting isn't about killing. It's about balance."
His father's words echoed in his mind. "Hunting isn't just about killing. It's about balance. Respect. Knowing when to pull the trigger… and when not to."
Jamie exhaled through his nose, keeping the rifle raised for another long moment.
The buck stood still, almost like it knew.
Jamie held its gaze, watching the rise and fall of its chest, the way it instinctively placed itself between the doe and the fawn.
His finger relaxed off the trigger.
A second later, he lowered the rifle completely.
The deer remained for a beat longer, then, sensing the lack of danger, it flicked its ears and turned. The smaller deer hesitated, then followed, and the family disappeared back into the trees, swallowed by the forest.
Jamie let out a slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where the deer had been.
Then, he turned, stepping away from the clearing, moving deeper into the woods.
There would be other game.
But this one?
This one wasn't his to take.
Jamie moved quietly through the dense underbrush, his boots barely making a sound on the damp forest floor. The sun was beginning to lower, casting golden rays through the towering Douglas firs.
He spotted a set of fresh hoofprints in the mud—larger than the last ones, deeper, made by a heavier animal. A lone buck. Likely pushed away from the herd by a stronger rival, now wandering alone.
He crouched down, inspecting the tracks. It was moving downhill, likely toward a small creek. The prints were still fresh, less than an hour old. The pace was steady. The buck must not have been spooked.
Jamie straightened, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder, and began to follow.
After nearly fifteen minutes of careful tracking, Jamie spotted movement through the trees. A large, solitary buck stood near the edge of a ridge, its antlers catching the fading sunlight.
It was big, likely well-fed, strong. Taking it down would be a clean, ethical kill—one shot, no suffering.
Jamie slowed his breathing, raising his rifle in one smooth, practiced motion. His finger hovered over the trigger, lining up the sights with the deer's vitals.
Then a breeze shifted.
The buck's head snapped up. Its ears flicked.
Jamie stilled, adjusting his stance.
The deer hesitated, lowering its head for a moment before taking a single step forward.
Now.
Jamie exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger.
The crack of the rifle echoed through the trees.
The buck jerked, its muscles tensing, then collapsed almost instantly.
Jamie kept his rifle trained on it for a moment, waiting. Watching.
No suffering. A clean shot.
He lowered the weapon and exhaled, stepping forward toward the fallen animal.
As he crouched beside the deer, Jamie felt something settle inside him—a familiar, steady calm. Hunting wasn't about the thrill of the chase. It was about precision, patience, respect for the process.
He ran a gloved hand over the buck's fur, feeling the warmth slowly fade.
"A man should know how to survive." His father's voice echoed in his mind.
Jamie pulled out his hunting knife and got to work. He would bring this back to camp. Nothing wasted.
The sun continued its slow descent behind the mountains as he worked, and for the first time in a long time, Jamie felt at peace.
Jamie took a slow breath, letting the crisp forest air settle in his lungs. The buck lay motionless at his feet, its antlers catching the dimming light filtering through the trees. He exhaled, running a hand over his face before glancing toward the sky. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. He needed to move.
The first thing he had to do was field dress the deer. His father had drilled this into him—leaving the internal organs inside would add unnecessary weight and could spoil the meat if left too long. Jamie pulled a hunting knife from his pack and crouched beside the animal. With practiced ease, he made a careful incision along the abdomen, working methodically to remove the organs while keeping the cavity clean. Years of surgery had made his hands steady, precise. This was no different—just another procedure, another set of careful incisions and calculated movements. He worked quickly, rolling the buck onto its side to let gravity do its work before wiping the blade clean and standing.
The body was lighter now, but still heavy enough to be a challenge. Jamie studied the terrain. Dragging the deer by its legs would be slow and inefficient, and carrying it all the way back to camp on his shoulders? Not happening. He reached into his pack and pulled out a length of rope, securing it around the buck's hind legs. Spotting a fallen tree branch nearby, he fashioned a makeshift drag harness, looping the rope over his chest to distribute the weight. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than the alternative.
He started moving, keeping his pace steady as he made his way through the dense underbrush. The buck's weight still pulled at his muscles, but he'd carried worse. Endurance wasn't an issue—not after years of surgeries, not after the military, not after dragging injured soldiers out of far worse conditions. The trick was to conserve energy, to take the easiest route back. He avoided thick brush, maneuvering carefully over uneven ground until he reached the dirt road where he had parked the SUV earlier.
Jamie unlooped the rope and rolled his shoulders, shaking out the tension in his arms. Then, gripping the buck by its legs, he hoisted it onto the cargo rack in the back. It took effort, but he got it up without too much trouble. He secured it tightly with another length of rope before pulling a tarp over it, keeping it protected from dirt and prying eyes. Satisfied, he climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, breaking the quiet of the forest.
The drive back to camp was short. The headlights cut through the dim light as he pulled up near the fire pit, where the others had finally settled down. George and Karev, still nursing their bruised egos from their earlier slap fight, looked up as he parked. Derek, standing near Burke and Webber, raised a brow.
"That was fast."
Burke, ever composed, gave a small nod. "You made good time."
Jamie stepped out of the SUV, shutting the door behind him. Without a word, he walked to the back, grabbed the tarp, and yanked it off. The buck lay sprawled across the cargo rack, its size and weight making it clear this was no small hunt.
Silence.
"Holy shit," Karev muttered, staring.
Chief Webber blinked before letting out a low chuckle. "Now that is impressive."
Jamie smirked and grabbed his knife. "Anyone want to help clean it, or are you all just going to stand there?"
Karev wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, I think I'll pass."
George, still wide-eyed, glanced at Burke, then at Derek, before reluctantly stepping forward. "Uh… I'll help?"
Jamie grinned, tossing him a pair of gloves. "Good. You can hold the legs."
Burke and Webber exchanged amused glances, while Derek just sighed, shaking his head.
"Mountain men," Derek muttered. "You're all insane."
George fumbled with the gloves, pulling them on while keeping his gaze locked on the carcass. His hands hovered uncertainly before Jamie nudged him forward. "Relax, O'Malley. You cut people open for a living."
"Yeah, but they don't usually have fur," George muttered under his breath.
Jamie just smirked before crouching down, rolling up his sleeves. "Alright, let's get started."
Burke and Webber exchanged amused glances as Jamie made the first incision, his blade slicing cleanly down the belly. George grimaced slightly but held firm, keeping the legs in place as Jamie worked with practiced ease, removing the hide in smooth, efficient movements.
Karev, from a safe distance, crossed his arms. "You sure you weren't a butcher in another life?"
Jamie didn't even look up. "You saying that because I know how to process an animal or because you're too squeamish to do it yourself?"
Karev scoffed. "I just don't see the point. Grocery stores exist."
Jamie chuckled, cutting through the connective tissue with precision. "That's what my dad used to say—'If you want to eat it, you should know how to clean it.'"
George huffed, shifting his grip as Jamie continued. "Your dad took you hunting?"
Jamie nodded. "Every summer. Taught me how to track, how to shoot, how to survive." He glanced up, a small, unreadable smile on his lips. "Said a man should know how to take care of himself. Shouldn't have to rely on anyone else."
George nodded slowly, as if mulling that over.
Derek, watching from the sidelines, sighed, running a hand down his face. "Mountain men," he muttered. "You're all insane."
Burke smirked, stepping closer to inspect Jamie's work. "At least we know it's fresh."
Jamie finished with a final, precise cut before standing, stretching his arms. "Alright. Let's hang the hide to dry." He handed George the knife, who hesitated before taking it.
"You want me to—?"
"Start cutting off the excess," Jamie said. "I'll take care of the rest."
George nodded, his usual hesitation fading as he focused on the task. Meanwhile, Jamie took the cleaned meat and began preparing it for the fire.
Webber watched him work, something thoughtful in his gaze. "You really do know what you're doing."
Jamie smirked, tossing a few seasoned cuts onto the makeshift grill over the fire. "Well, Chief, I didn't spend my entire life in the city."
Webber chuckled, settling onto a log. "Clearly."
Jamie sat back on the log, his knife idly flipping in his hands as the fire crackled in front of them. The scent of roasting venison filled the air, mingling with the crisp mountain air. He wasn't much for small talk, but after a day of hiking, fishing, and settling into the wilderness, the conversation had turned reflective.
Burke shifted slightly, glancing toward Derek. "So that Mark Sloan... He's bad news."
Derek scoffed, shaking his head. "Like a cancer. He infects everything. What are we, three hours outside of Seattle and still he infects everything?" He let out a humorless laugh. "You know, I thought that if I just got away for a while, I'd get some answers... a fresh start."
Chief Webber, who had been quietly nursing a drink from his flask, let out a low chuckle. "Fresh starts? No such thing."
Derek turned to him, arching a brow. "Any other words of wisdom you'd like to give us, Chief?"
Webber sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm living in a hotel. I buy most of my clothes from the hotel gift shop, and my wife won't speak to me."
Burke shook his head. "Well, don't look at me. I came out here for the same reasons you did. I have no wisdom. There is no wisdom here."
Jamie exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "So in other words, we're all just a bunch of idiots."
Burke nodded, poking at the fire with a stick. "Yes."
Derek chuckled, taking a sip from his canteen. "Great."
A comfortable silence settled between them, the glow of the fire flickering in their tired eyes. The night was cold, but the fire was warm, and for the first time in a long time, Jamie felt the weight of everything—Seattle, the hospital, his past—fade, if only for a little while.
The fire had burned low, glowing embers casting flickering shadows across the camp. The scent of charred wood and lingering venison still hung in the crisp night air, but the laughter and conversation had faded. The cold was setting in, creeping through the trees, biting at exposed skin.
Joe and Walter had already disappeared into their tent, zipped up tight against the dropping temperature. Webber stretched with a groan before retreating to his own tent, while George and Karev sat in silence, their feud temporarily forgotten as exhaustion settled in.
Jamie watched as Burke stood up, dusting off his hands. He moved with purpose, but there was a tension in his shoulders, a stiffness that hadn't been there before.
He's getting up to walk it off, Jamie thought.
The same way he had done, back when exhaustion and frustration bled into his bones and the only thing that helped was stepping away, breathing in the cold night air, and pretending, just for a few minutes, that the weight didn't exist.
Jamie made his decision in an instant.
"Where are you going?" Jamie asked, keeping his tone even.
Burke barely glanced back. "Just a walk."
Jamie stood, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs. "I'm coming with you."
Burke hesitated. "I don't need—"
"There are bears in these woods," Jamie said, cutting him off.
Burke narrowed his eyes slightly. "Bears."
Jamie shrugged. "Yeah. You might need a backup if one decides you look tasty."
Burke exhaled, glancing toward the trees. He knew Jamie wasn't really tagging along because of the wildlife. But after a brief pause, he nodded.
"Fine."
Jamie smirked slightly, grabbing his jacket.
Without another word, they disappeared into the forest, the fire behind them flickering one last time before dimming into embers.
They walked in silence for a while, their boots crunching softly against the forest floor. The cold night air was crisp, the distant hoot of an owl the only sound besides their footsteps. The weight of the conversation that hadn't yet started hung between them, thick as the mist rolling through the trees.
Jamie finally broke the silence.
"You know," he started, his voice low but firm, "when I saw you in the OR with Yang, doing a damn Humpty Dumpty routine, I wanted to scream at you."
Burke's steps faltered just slightly, but he didn't say anything.
Jamie continued. "Surgery isn't just cutting people open—it's a responsibility. A responsibility to be at your best, to know when you shouldn't be in that room, to make the right call even when it's the hardest one to make."
Burke let out a slow exhale but kept walking.
Jamie glanced at him, then looked forward again. "But I've had time to think. And the thing is... we're human. We all make mistakes—some bigger than others."
Burke finally spoke, his voice steady but clipped. "Your point is?"
Jamie stopped walking, forcing Burke to do the same.
"My point is," Jamie said, looking him dead in the eye, "I've ignored my limits. I've pushed past them like they didn't exist. I've ignored problems, hoping they'd disappear. Or worse—I tried to run away from them."
Burke held his gaze, but his expression remained unreadable.
Jamie exhaled sharply. "And the thing is—I'm only now starting to realize this—you can't run from your past. From your mistakes. They'll always catch up to you."
The wind rustled through the trees, but neither man moved.
Jamie's voice softened slightly, but it didn't lose its weight. "Preston, you're a good guy. As far as I can tell. But don't ignore this. Don't pretend it's not happening until it's too late. You're not alone. And relying on Yang to cover for you? She's an intern. No matter how skilled she is, that burden is not hers to carry."
Burke's jaw tightened.
Jamie didn't let up. "If you make a mistake because of that tremor—because you're not at a hundred percent—you'll regret it for the rest of your life." His voice dropped lower. "I've seen what it does to someone when they realize they almost killed a patient because they wouldn't admit they had a problem."
Burke still didn't speak.
But Jamie saw it—the way his shoulders tensed just slightly, the way his breathing shifted.
The words had landed.
Jamie didn't need to push any further. He had said what he came to say.
He started walking again, past Burke, toward the dark stretch of trees ahead.
A few seconds later, he heard Burke's footsteps fall into step beside him.
They didn't need to say anything else.
The message had been received.
Jamie stepped out of the tree line, his boots crunching against the dry leaves and dirt as he made his way back toward camp. The fire had burned low, glowing embers casting soft red light against the darkened forest. Most of the others had already retreated to their tents for the night, but as Jamie approached the cabin, he noticed someone sitting on the wooden steps leading up to the porch.
Derek.
A half-empty beer bottle dangled loosely from his fingers, his gaze fixed on the sky, watching the stars through the break in the trees. He looked deep in thought, brow furrowed, shoulders hunched slightly as if the weight of whatever was on his mind had finally settled there.
Jamie hesitated for only a second before walking over. "You gonna stare at the stars all night, or are you just trying to commune with nature?"
Derek snorted, shaking his head. "Just thinking."
Jamie nodded, stepping up onto the porch. He didn't ask if he could sit—he just did, lowering himself onto the step beside Derek and stretching out his legs. He pulled out his own beer from his coat pocket, twisted off the cap, and took a sip.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Jamie glanced at the cabin behind them before turning back to Derek. "You wanna see the inside?"
Derek looked over at him, surprised. "You sure?"
Jamie shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Derek tilted his head slightly, considering him. Then he sighed, pushing himself up and dusting off his jeans. "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."
Jamie nodded, fishing his keys out of his pocket. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping inside first. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of old wood, faded tobacco, and something faintly metallic. The fireplace was cold, but it didn't take long before Jamie struck a match, lighting the kindling until a small flame began to flicker to life.
Derek stepped inside after him, his eyes scanning the space.
It was everything he expected from a hunting cabin—practical, rugged, with thick wooden beams and an old leather couch facing the fireplace. The walls were decorated with mounted deer antlers, old rifles, and framed photos—black-and-white pictures of past generations, military medals, and candid shots of a younger Jamie with his father, both of them in worn flannel, holding up freshly caught fish or standing beside an old pickup truck.
Derek's gaze landed on the worn wooden table in the corner, where a hunting knife lay beside a box of spent shell casings. He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I gotta say, this is not what I pictured when I thought of 'Jamie Knight's childhood getaway.'"
Jamie smirked as he crouched near the fire, adding another log. "Yeah, well. You've seen the New York side of my family. This was my dad's world."
Derek nodded, stepping further in, his fingers brushing against one of the framed photos. "Looks like a good place to grow up."
Jamie shrugged. "It was different." He gestured to the room. "Summers here, winters in New York, and every other day in between bouncing between those two lives." He exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "Camping and galas. Fishing and charity balls. My dad used to say a man should know how to survive anywhere."
Derek sat down on the couch, stretching out his legs as he took another sip of his beer. He stared at the fire for a long moment before finally speaking.
"You ever feel like no matter where you go, you don't really fit?" he asked, his voice quieter than before.
Jamie glanced at him. "All the time."
Derek let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah. That figures."
Jamie studied him for a beat, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightened slightly around the bottle in his hand. "This about Meredith?"
Derek let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Yeah," he admitted. "It's… complicated."
Jamie huffed a quiet laugh. "It's not complicated."
Derek shot him a look. "Jamie, trust me—"
"One question," Jamie interrupted, cutting through whatever excuse Derek was about to throw at him. "Can you imagine your life without her?"
Derek opened his mouth. Hesitated. Closed it again.
Jamie didn't need him to answer. He already saw it in his face.
"That's what I thought," Jamie said simply.
Derek exhaled heavily, leaning back against the couch.
Jamie watched him for a moment before shaking his head. "Look, fresh starts don't exist. We both know that." He took a sip of his beer, then glanced back at Derek. "But if you both pretend they do… by the time you can't pretend anymore, you probably won't need to."
Derek stared at the fire, mulling that over. After a long pause, he nodded. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."
Jamie smirked. "I usually am."
Derek let out a breathy chuckle before he turned to Jamie fully, finally taking him in.
"You look different," he noted. "The hair, the shave, the clothes." He motioned vaguely to Jamie's outfit, which, while still rugged, carried the kind of tailored precision that only old money could pull off. "What changed?"
Jamie was quiet for a moment, his fingers rolling his beer bottle between his hands.
A dozen things flickered through his mind—the exhaustion, the realization in the OR, the conversation with Webber, the letter from his mother, the melody on the piano.
Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head with a small smirk. "Let's just say… I'm working on it."
Derek didn't push, just nodded, taking another sip of his beer.
Jamie stared into the fire for a long moment, the crackling of the logs the only sound between them. He rolled the beer bottle between his fingers, the condensation slick against his skin.
Then, without really thinking about it, he spoke.
"I went through my parents' inheritance this morning."
Derek glanced at him, surprised. "Yeah?"
Jamie nodded, still watching the flames. "Never really dealt with it. Not after my dad died. Just… ran."
Derek stayed quiet, letting him talk.
Jamie let out a breath. "My mom left me a letter. She wrote it before she died. Never got to give it to me." His fingers tightened around the bottle. "It sat there for seventeen years. My dad never touched it. Never even gave me her things. Guess he couldn't bring himself to do it."
Derek exhaled through his nose. "That sounds… familiar."
Jamie smirked slightly. "Yeah. Thought you'd get that." He shook his head. "The letter… she talked about me becoming a surgeon. How she always knew I would. She told me she was proud of me, even back then. And she left me—" He let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "She left me the completed version of that melody she used to play. The one she was working on when I was a kid."
Derek was silent, absorbing it.
Jamie let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "You know… I thought coming to Seattle would be a fresh start. A real one. New hospital, new city. A chance to just… move forward. But some days, it feels like I brought all my ghosts with me."
Derek nodded, taking a sip of his beer. "Because you did."
Jamie huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. I guess I did."
Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Jamie, you lost your parents young. Then you disappeared for six years into a warzone. That doesn't just go away because you change cities. It follows you."
Jamie stayed quiet, staring into the fire.
Derek sighed, running a hand through his hair. "But you're here now. And for what it's worth, you've got people who care. You've got me. Webber. Hell, even Karev probably likes you, and he barely likes anyone."
Jamie smirked. "Big honor."
Derek chuckled. "I'm serious." He glanced at him. "You don't have to figure all of this out alone."
Jamie nodded slowly, the words settling deep in his chest. He wasn't sure he believed them yet, not entirely.
Derek let out a long sigh, finishing the last sip of his beer before setting the bottle down beside him. Jamie did the same, stretching his arms over his head before glancing toward the dying fire in the hearth.
"We should get some sleep," Jamie said finally, his voice quieter now, heavier with exhaustion. "Tomorrow's gonna be a long drive back."
Derek nodded, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood up. "Yeah. Probably a good idea."
Jamie grabbed the poker from beside the fireplace, pushing the embers around, making sure they were contained before he followed Derek toward the door.
They stepped outside, the cold air hitting them immediately. The fire pit at the center of camp was nothing more than a few glowing coals now, casting faint shadows across the tents. The night was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the trees and the distant sound of the river.
Derek exhaled, glancing up at the sky. "Gotta say, the stars out here are a hell of a lot better than in the city."
Jamie smirked. "Yeah. That's why my dad used to bring me out here. Said it reminded him that the world was bigger than whatever problems he had."
Derek looked over at him, something knowing in his gaze. "Smart man."
Jamie's smirk softened, but he didn't respond.
They walked toward the tents, their boots crunching against the dirt.
"You taking the cabin?" Derek asked.
Jamie shook his head. "Nah. I'll crash in the tent. Been a while since I actually camped properly."
Derek chuckled. "Yeah, we'll see how much you still love it when you wake up sore as hell."
Jamie scoffed, opening the tent flap. "I spent years sleeping in worse conditions. I think I'll manage."
Derek snorted but didn't argue.
As Jamie kicked off his boots and settled into his sleeping bag, he could hear the others shifting inside their tents, the muffled sound of someone—probably George—grumbling about the cold.
Jamie lay back, staring at the dark canvas above him.
He had come out here expecting nothing more than some time away from the hospital. Instead, he'd confronted things he hadn't planned on—Burke, his mother's letter, his father's memory.
Maybe, he thought, as he closed his eyes, that wasn't such a bad thing.
Tomorrow, they'd drive back to Seattle. Back to reality.
But for tonight, he let himself rest.