Jamie woke up to the dull ache radiating across his back. He shifted slightly, groaning under his breath as he stretched his arms above his head, trying to loosen the stiffness that had settled into his muscles overnight.
"Maybe I should've taken the cabin," he muttered, rolling his shoulders as he sat up. The cold morning air seeped through the thin fabric of the tent, sending a brief shiver down his spine.
With a sigh, he pulled himself up, stepping outside to see the first hints of sunlight filtering through the trees. The lake in the distance was covered in a thin layer of mist, the world around him still quiet, undisturbed.
It was peaceful. The kind of silence he hadn't realized he missed.
He grabbed his fishing gear and headed down to the shoreline, boots crunching lightly against the damp ground. The chill in the air was sharper near the water, but he ignored it, settling into his usual spot.
For a while, he just sat there, watching the lake. The ripples along the surface, the golden rays of the sun stretching over the horizon. His mind drifted, thoughts pulling between the past few days and the years before.
Seattle had been meant to be a fresh start, but the past still clung to him. The letter. His mother's words. Burke. His own exhaustion.
He cast his line into the water and exhaled.
By the time the others started waking up, Jamie had filled a bucket with fish. He made his way back to camp, setting the haul down near the fire pit before crouching to clean them.
Alex eyed the bucket as he stumbled out of his tent, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Where the hell did you get all that?"
Jamie smiled slightly. "Lake."
Alex rolled his eyes. "I mean, how? We were out there all day yesterday and caught nothing."
Jamie shrugged, cutting into another fish with precision. "Skill."
Derek chuckled from where he was rolling up his sleeping bag. "Translation: 'You suck at fishing, Karev.'"
Alex scowled but didn't argue.
George, still looking half-asleep, hesitated before sitting beside Jamie. He grabbed a fish and picked up a knife Jamie handed him.
Jamie motioned with his own knife. "Start by slicing along the belly. Just don't slice your damn fingers off."
George nodded, though he looked slightly queasy.
The fire crackled as the fish cooked, the scent of smoked meat filling the morning air.
"Damn," Karev muttered, staring at the grilled fish with something bordering on suspicion. "That actually smells good."
"I told you," Jamie said, flipping one of the fillets with expert ease. "Freshly caught, cleaned properly, cooked over an open flame—it's better than anything you've had in the hospital cafeteria."
Joe grinned, taking a bite. "You know, I'll give you that. This is actually incredible."
Walter nodded in agreement, chewing thoughtfully. "You sure you didn't miss your calling as a chef?"
Jamie smirked. "Surgery and cooking aren't all that different. Precision, timing, the right tools—it all comes down to technique."
Derek raised a brow. "So what you're saying is, if you ever get tired of being a surgeon, you're opening a steakhouse?"
Jamie huffed a quiet laugh. "I'll keep it in mind."
The meal was a welcome moment of camaraderie. The group sat around the dying fire, eating and talking, the weight of the world briefly lifted. Even Burke seemed lighter, though Jamie knew their conversation from the night before still lingered.
The meal was a welcome moment of camaraderie. The group sat around the dying fire, eating and talking, the weight of the world briefly lifted. Even Burke seemed lighter, though Jamie knew their conversation from the night before still lingered.
As they packed up the camp, rolling up tents and securing their gear, Burke approached him.
"I'm going to talk to Webber," he said, voice low enough that the others wouldn't hear.
Jamie glanced at him, surprised.
Burke exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just… give me time to think about how I want to say it."
Jamie nodded. "Take the time you need. But for what it's worth—the tremor has lessened. It's still possible you'll make a full recovery."
Burke was silent for a moment before finally nodding.
Jamie hesitated before adding, "I knew a soldier once. Spinal injury. Everyone said he'd never walk again. He went through hell—months of rehab, pushing himself harder than anyone thought possible. Now? He's back in active duty." Jamie met Burke's gaze. "The body can heal. So can the mind. You just have to let it."
The words hung between them, but as Jamie spoke them, he realized he wasn't just saying them for Burke.
He was saying them for himself.
For the exhaustion that had settled deep in his bones.
For the weight of the past he carried like a second skin.
For the grief that still crept in when he least expected it.
He had spent years pushing forward, never looking back—burying himself in work, in medicine, in war. But no matter how far he ran, the past had always been there, waiting.
Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop running.
Burke didn't say anything right away, but something shifted in his expression, a flicker of understanding passing between them.
"Thanks, Knight," he finally said.
Jamie just nodded, his grip tightening slightly around the strap of his bag.
"Anytime."
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The SUV rumbled down the uneven backroads, kicking up dust as they wound their way back toward Seattle. The morning chill had faded, replaced by the mid-morning warmth that seeped through the windows. Sunlight filtered through the towering pines, casting dappled shadows over the dirt path.
Derek sat in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, leaning back with the relaxed air of someone who had fully enjoyed his time away from reality. In the back, Burke and Alex sat in comfortable silence, while George occasionally glanced at the truck following behind them, where Webber, Joe, and Walter trailed in their own vehicle.
Jamie's hands rested easily on the wheel, navigating the winding roads with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly where he was going. Unlike most of the others, this had been his father's terrain long before it became his own.
For the first time in weeks, Jamie felt calm. The weight that had pressed on his shoulders in Seattle—his past, his choices, his exhaustion—felt just a little lighter.
Of course, it wouldn't last. It never did.
"I gotta say, Knight, you don't strike me as the 'live off the land' type," Alex mused, breaking the comfortable silence.
Jamie smirked, keeping his eyes on the road. "Yeah? And what type do I strike you as?"
"More of the 'five-star hotel and room service' type." Derek muttered.
Burke let out an amused huff. "That's not entirely inaccurate. The man does drive an Aston Martin."
"Correction," Jamie said dryly, "I own an Aston Martin. That doesn't mean I don't know how to skin a deer, build a fire, or hunt my own food."
"Right," Alex muttered. "Because nothing screams 'old money' like gutting a buck in the middle of nowhere."
Jamie grinned. "Hey, survival skills come in handy. You never know when you might need them."
George leaned forward between the seats. "Still, kinda crazy how you can go from… you know, that—" he gestured vaguely toward Jamie's well-maintained wardrobe and polished demeanor, "—to full-on mountain man."
Jamie just shrugged. "Contradictions keep life interesting."
George, half-awake, rubbed his eyes. "I still can't believe that deer," he muttered. "I mean, I know you're some kind of military-trained super surgeon, but that was... next level."
Jamie smirked but didn't look away from the road. "You grow up with a father like mine, you learn a few things."
Burke, scrolling through his phone, glanced up. "Your dad was Navy, right?"
Jamie nodded. "Lieutenant. SEAL. Took me out to that cabin every summer to 'toughen me up.'" He snorted. "At least, that's what he called it. He thought it was important for a man to know how to survive."
Derek, thoughtful, spoke up. "That might explain something."
Jamie raised a brow. "Oh?"
Derek glanced at him. "The way you handle pressure. Some people freeze. Some people panic. You? You thrive in it."
Jamie didn't answer. He just exhaled through his nose, shifting his focus back outside.
"You ever think about that?" Derek continued. "Where it comes from?"
Jamie rolled his shoulders. "Does it matter?"
Burke smirked. "So what you're saying is, if the apocalypse happens, we stick with you?"
Jamie chuckled. "If the apocalypse happens, you'd better hope you're standing next to me when it does."
That earned a round of amused chuckles from the car.
The conversation drifted after that, falling into a comfortable lull as the trees blurred past. The drive was peaceful. The atmosphere was easy.
Then Jamie saw it.
A boy. Standing on the side of the road.
His clothes were stained—dark patches of blood smeared across his jeans and t-shirt.
His arms flailed as he waved them down, his face twisted in panic.
In an instant, the entire atmosphere shifted.
Jamie's hands tightened around the steering wheel. His mind—so relaxed just a second ago—snapped into focus.
Everything slowed.
Jamie pulled the SUV to a sharp stop, dust swirling up from the dirt road as the vehicle settled. The engine hummed beneath his grip, but his focus was already on the boy standing just ahead.
The kid couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen—thin, pale, and visibly shaken. His arms flailed in wild, desperate motions, his chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven breaths. Blood smeared across his clothes, staining his small hands.
Jamie exhaled once, pushing everything else out of his head.
He shoved the car into park, throwing the door open before anyone else could react. The others were still processing what was happening, but Jamie was already moving.
As soon as his boots hit the ground, his voice lowered—steady, even.
"Hey, kid. Look at me."
The boy's breaths came in panicked gasps, his arms trembling as he pointed wildly down the road.
"M-My dad—our car—w-we crashed—he's s-stuck—he's not moving—there's so much blood—"
Jamie crouched in front of him, lowering himself to eye level. "Hey. Listen to me. What's your name?"
The boy blinked rapidly, his lower lip trembling. "T-Toby."
"Toby. Okay." Jamie's voice remained calm, grounded. "I need you to take a deep breath for me. In through your nose."
Toby gulped air, his whole body shaking.
"Good," Jamie said, nodding. "Now out through your mouth."
Toby followed, his breath still ragged but less erratic.
Jamie placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Where's your dad, Toby?"
The boy jerked his thumb behind him. "C-car's down the road—he tried to s-swerve, but—we hit a tree, and he's still in there, and—and I c-couldn't—"
Jamie gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. "You did the right thing, Toby. You came to get help. Now let me do the rest."
The others piled out of the cars—Webber, Karev, George, Burke, and Derek all taking in the scene with rapidly shifting expressions.
Jamie stood, already shifting into command mode.
"Karev, you stay with Toby," Jamie instructed, voice clipped but calm. "Keep him talking, make sure he's not hurt. If he shows signs of shock, get him lying down and cover him with a blanket."
Karev nodded, immediately stepping forward.
"George," Jamie turned next, sharp and direct. "Trauma kit in my trunk. And get the satellite phone."
George nodded quickly and ran back to the SUV, fumbling with the locks as he grabbed the equipment.
Jamie was already moving down the road, Burke and Derek falling into step beside him.
The wreck came into view quickly—a dark sedan crumpled against a thick tree trunk, the hood twisted, windshield shattered, and steam rising from the engine block. The impact had driven the front end deep into the bark, the force of the collision evident in the way the metal had folded in on itself. The passenger side was crushed inward, but the driver's side was slightly more intact.
Inside, slumped over the steering wheel, was Toby's father.
Jamie's mind rapidly assessed the scene. The airbags had deployed, meaning the impact had been violent enough to trigger them. Blood was visible, streaking the cracked glass and staining the man's shirt. His posture was motionless, his head tilted forward unnaturally.
Jamie reached the driver's side first, pulling on the handle. It didn't budge.
"Door's jammed," he muttered. He pressed his fingers against the man's neck, feeling for a carotid pulse. "Weak, thready pulse—he's alive, but hypotensive."
Burke moved to the opposite side, peering in through the shattered window. "Airway's compromised—his chin is down, blocking his trachea."
Jamie nodded, immediately tilting the man's head back slightly, opening the airway. A faint, ragged breath wheezed past the man's lips. "He's barely moving air. We need to get him out of here before he tanks."
Derek tried the back door. "Backseat's empty—no other passengers." His gaze flicked to the dashboard. "Damn, look at his legs. He's pinned under the steering column."
Jamie bent lower, his eyes scanning the injury sites. The man's lower limbs were trapped by the crushed frame, his right thigh bent at an unnatural angle. The pressure could be cutting off circulation, which meant a crush injury was now a real concern.
"We need to move fast," Jamie said, reaching for his trauma shears. He sliced through the seatbelt in one clean motion, tossing the strap aside. "If his legs have been compressed too long, moving him too quickly could cause reperfusion syndrome—massive potassium release, metabolic acidosis. He could arrest the moment we free him."
Burke frowned. "So what's the plan?"
Jamie's gaze flicked to Derek. "We stabilize him before we move him. IV access, fluids, monitor for compartment syndrome."
Derek nodded and turned toward the others. "O'Malley! Get me two large bore IVs, normal saline, and the portable BP cuff."
George scrambled to the trauma kit, retrieving supplies while Jamie unzipped the bag to grab a cervical collar. He carefully maneuvered it around the man's neck, securing it tightly to prevent further spinal movement.
Burke moved to the side, his fingers carefully palpating the man's ribs. "Tenderness along the left side, possible flail chest. We might be looking at a hemothorax."
Jamie swore under his breath. "Okay, we do a modified extraction. Burke, get ready to decompress if he decompensates. Derek, once we get him out, check for peritoneal signs. His abdomen looks distended—possible intra-abdominal hemorrhage."
Derek's brows furrowed. "Splenic rupture?"
Jamie gave a short nod. "Most likely. If it's bad, he won't make it to the hospital without blood products. O'Malley! Where's my sat phone?"
George fumbled with the device before handing it over. Jamie took it, dialing quickly. "This is Dr. Knight. We have an MVA victim—male, mid-40s, tachycardic, hypotensive, probable intra-abdominal bleeding and lower limb entrapment. We need an airlift ASAP, blood products on arrival. ETA?"
The dispatcher's voice crackled through the receiver. "Medevac is fifteen minutes out. Rangers en route."
Jamie exhaled. "Copy that. We'll stabilize for transport." He hung up and turned back to the others. "Fifteen minutes. We work with what we have."
Burke was already pulling out the decompression needle, prepping in case of a tension pneumothorax. Derek inserted the first IV, the saline running wide open to keep the man from crashing. Jamie pressed lightly against the abdomen, feeling the rigidity beneath his palms.
"Yeah," he muttered. "That's a belly full of blood."
Derek's jaw tightened. "If he crashes, we won't have time to intubate before transport."
Jamie's gaze flicked to the airway kit in the trauma bag. "If he loses his airway, I'll crike him."
Burke and Derek both paused at that.
"Wouldn't be my first choice either," Jamie said evenly. "But if it comes to that, we do what we have to."
No one argued.
Derek moved toward the legs. "We still need to get him out. He's been pinned too long."
Jamie nodded. "We go slow. Release the pressure gradually to prevent shock." He turned to Burke. "On my count. One—two—three."
Together, they pried the dashboard upward, inch by inch. Jamie monitored the patient's vitals, watching for any sign of rapid deterioration.
The moment his legs were freed, the man let out a strangled, gurgling gasp.
"BP's tanking," Derek warned.
Jamie's hands were already moving, pressing down on the femoral artery. "He's hemorrhaging from his thigh—probable femoral rupture." He grabbed a tourniquet from the trauma kit, cinching it high on the leg. The bleeding slowed, but the man was fading fast.
"Damn it," Burke muttered. "He needs a surgical suite."
Jamie's eyes flicked to the horizon.
Distantly, the low thrum of rotor blades grew louder.
Medevac was almost there.
"We just have to keep him alive," Jamie muttered. "For five more minutes."
Jamie adjusted his grip on the man's pulse point, his brow furrowing. The patient's heart rate was thready and rapid, his skin growing cooler, more clammy by the second. His breath hitched—shallow and uneven.
Something's wrong.
Jamie's mind worked fast, filtering through possibilities. The blood loss was bad, but the way the man's breathing deteriorated, the muffled heart sounds, and the jugular vein distension—
Pericardial Tamponade.
"Damn it."
He didn't have imaging. He didn't have a sterile OR. But he didn't need either. The signs were there, clear as day, and if he didn't act now, the man was going to code before the Medevac even got him off the ground.
"I need a 16-gauge angiocath—now." Jamie's voice was sharp, cutting through the chaos.
George, still pale and trying to keep up, fumbled through the trauma kit. "A what?"
Jamie didn't wait. He grabbed it himself, yanked off the cap, and went in blind.
He felt the resistance—the thick pericardial sac trapping the blood around the heart. He advanced carefully, keeping his angle precise.
One second.
Two.
A rush of dark, oxygen-deprived blood spilled back into the syringe.
The man gasped, his body jerking slightly as his heart found space to beat again.
Jamie's hands were steady as he let the syringe drain the built-up pressure.
Burke, who had been watching closely, finally let out a breath. "Jesus."
Karev, keeping the kid calm a few feet away, muttered, "Okay, that was—" He didn't finish. Just shook his head.
Jamie didn't look up. He adjusted his hold, kept the catheter in place, and locked eyes with Derek. "This buys us time, but we need to get him on that chopper now."
The sound of whirring rotors cut through the trees as the medevac chopper approached, the downwash from the blades kicking up dirt and loose leaves. The high-pitched whine of the engine filled the clearing as the aircraft hovered overhead, unable to land in the uneven terrain.
Jamie didn't flinch as the rescue hoist deployed, a flight medic and a paramedic descending rapidly on a cable, their movements precise.
As soon as they touched the ground, they were in motion. The flight medic—a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and military posture—moved straight for the patient. His name patch read "Rodriguez."
"What do we have?" Rodriguez barked, eyes scanning the injured man sprawled on the ground.
"Male, mid-40s. MVA with blunt force trauma to the chest," Jamie reported efficiently. "Primary assessment showed decreased heart sounds, jugular vein distension, and hypotension—pericardial tamponade. I performed a blind pericardiocentesis in the field and got return—BP's holding, but he's not out of the woods."
Rodriguez's sharp gaze flicked to Jamie, then to the makeshift chest decompression setup still in place. He gave a short nod, impressed despite himself, but his expression remained guarded.
"Alright, doc, we'll take it from here. You can give us a report when we're in the air."
Jamie didn't move. "I'm coming with you."
Rodriguez shot him a look, already shaking his head. "Not happening. We have a tight cabin, weight limits, and a protocol to follow. You're a civilian surgeon—we'll get him to the hospital."
Jamie frowned.
"I'm a Major, U.S. Army, JSOC-trained trauma surgeon, certified in aeromedical transport," he stated, his voice calm but firm. "I've flown dozens of critical evac missions. Your patient needs a surgeon in that chopper if we're going to keep him alive."
Rodriguez froze. His eyes flickered with something unreadable—recognition, maybe respect—but he still hesitated.
Then Jamie caught it.
The patch on Rodriguez's sleeve. It was faint, but he knew it well. 160th SOAR – Night Stalkers.
Ex-military.
Jamie's lips barely twitched. He adjusted his stance, lowering his voice just slightly.
"You flew with the Night Stalkers, didn't you?"
Rodriguez's eyes narrowed, but his posture shifted. "Yeah. Two tours."
Jamie's tone didn't change. "Then you know as well as I do that this guy isn't stable. I did a blind tap, but if that fluid builds up again or his airway tanks mid-flight, he's dead before you even touch down."
Rodriguez glanced at the patient again, running the numbers in his head.
Jamie pressed. "I know my way around a bird, I won't get in your way. But if something goes south, you'll be glad I'm there."
A long beat of silence.
Then, finally, Rodriguez exhaled and gave a short, decisive nod. "Alright, doc. You ride with us."
Jamie didn't waste a second.
"Get him secured," Rodriguez barked to his paramedic, who was already preparing the harness. Within moments, the rescue hoist was activated, lifting the patient into the chopper first. The paramedic followed.
Rodriguez clipped himself onto the cable, glancing at Jamie. "You afraid of heights, doc?"
Jamie smirked. "Nope."
Rodriguez huffed. "Figures."
Then, Jamie stepped into the harness, gripping onto the hoist as the cable jerked him upward, the ground falling away beneath his boots.
As soon as his feet hit the metal floor of the chopper, he was moving.
The doors slammed shut, the pilot radioed in their ETA, and the medevac surged forward—leaving the clearing, the others, and the wreckage behind.
Jamie didn't look back.
Because now? The real work began.
On the ground, Derek, Burke, Webber, Karev, and O'Malley stood frozen, watching the chopper disappear into the sky.
For a second, no one spoke.
Then Karev broke the silence.
"Did he just—"
"Yup," Derek said, still staring at the sky.
"—Just get hauled into a goddamn helicopter?"
Burke let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "He did."
Webber finally snapped out of his daze, already grabbing his phone. "Alright. We need to move. The medic gave us the coordinates—they're flying him to a trauma center with a helipad."
Derek exhaled, running a hand through his hair, still processing what had just happened. "So we just follow?"
Jamie's last words before strapping into the hoist rang in his ears.
"Follow me in the cars. You'll be needed when we land."
There had been no hesitation. No room for debate.
Webber nodded. "Yeah. We follow."
Karev snorted, throwing his hands up. "Yeah, sure. Let's just chase after the guy who apparently moonlights as a goddamn Black Ops surgeon."
O'Malley, still standing there, swallowed. "That was… something."
Derek sighed, finally turning back toward the SUVs.
"Let's go."
They piled into the vehicles, kicking up dust as they sped down the road, the medevac already vanishing beyond the treetops.
Jamie crouched over the patient as the chopper rattled mid-air, its blades slicing through the sky. Rodriguez, seated across from him, kept a close eye on the monitors, his jaw tightening as he noted the dropping blood pressure.
"BP's tanking—68 over 40," Rodriguez called out over the noise.
Jamie's eyes snapped to the patient's chest. Even with the field pericardiocentesis, the signs were there—muffled heart sounds, distended jugular veins, the telltale worsening of respiratory effort.
The fluid was building up again—faster this time.
Jamie acted instantly.
"He's reaccumulating—tamponade's back," Jamie barked, reaching for the needle kit again. "I need to do another tap, but we're losing time."
Rodriguez nodded, but his face remained tense. "We can't keep draining him—we need a definitive fix."
Jamie's mind ran through options, recalculating what they could do mid-air.
Pericardiocentesis was only a temporary measure. The guy needed a surgical window—a pericardial window to keep the fluid from crushing his heart again.
But that required an OR.
And they weren't in an OR.
They were in the back of a goddamn helicopter.
Rodriguez's gaze flicked to Jamie, sensing the shift in his body language.
"What?"
Jamie exhaled sharply, making a split-second decision.
"I'm opening his chest."
Rodriguez stared. "You're what?"
Jamie was already reaching for a scalpel.
"This guy's not making it to the hospital unless I relieve the pressure now," Jamie said, voice calm, controlled. "Needle taps are just delaying the inevitable. We need to create a pericardial window."
Rodriguez hesitated. "You want to do surgery in mid-air?"
Jamie met his gaze. "You ever seen a surgeon in SOST work a case like this?"
Rodriguez's jaw tensed.
"…Yeah."
Jamie's expression didn't change. "Then you know it's possible."
A beat of silence.
Then, Rodriguez nodded sharply. "Alright. What do you need?"
Jamie didn't waste a second.
"Scalpel. I'm making a subxiphoid incision—small, just enough to access the pericardium."
Rodriguez handed him the blade.
Jamie took a steadying breath, then made the precise cut just below the sternum.
Blood pooled instantly, but Jamie's hands didn't shake.
"Blunt dissecting the pericardium," Jamie muttered, maneuvering his fingers through the small opening, feeling for the tense membrane strangling the heart.
The chopper jolted—a patch of turbulence.
Rodriguez instinctively braced Jamie with a hand against his shoulder to keep him steady.
Jamie barely noticed.
He found the pericardium, guiding a pair of trauma scissors into place.
"Here we go," he murmured.
One careful snip.
The fluid released instantly, draining out.
The monitors stabilized.
Jamie exhaled, rolling his shoulders back.
"BP rising," Rodriguez confirmed, nodding. "You bought him time."
Jamie sat back slightly, his hands bloodied, his heartbeat finally slowing.
Rodriguez eyed him. "You always this insane?"
Jamie smirked, pulling off his gloves. "Only when necessary."
Rodriguez shook his head but grinned. "Damn good work, Major."
Jamie just nodded. "Let's get him to that hospital."
The medevac pushed forward, racing toward the trauma center where the others were already waiting.
Jamie just leaned back against the bulkhead, breathing in the cold, sterile air of the cabin.
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As the rotors of the medevac slowed, the downwash of air sent gusts of wind across the hospital rooftop, ruffling surgical scrubs and causing clipped voices to rise over the noise. The moment the skids touched the ground, the flight medic unlatched the door, and Jamie was already moving, stepping out as if he had done this a hundred times before.
The trauma team was already assembled—two attendings, three residents, and a handful of nurses, all prepped and waiting with a gurney, their hands poised to receive the patient the second the straps were undone. The hospital's trauma chief, Dr. Helen Vargas, stood at the front, clipboard in hand, her sharp gaze already assessing the situation before Jamie even spoke.
"What have we got?" Vargas called out as Jamie and the medics lifted the patient onto the gurney.
Jamie stepped forward, voice measured and professional, all remnants of the flight adrenaline tamped down. He had done this before—too many times to count.
"Male, early 40s. Blunt chest trauma secondary to high-speed MVC into a tree. Seatbelt sign present but significant anterior force impact. Found unresponsive, GCS fluctuating between 5 and 8 en route. Intubated on scene, positive-pressure ventilation. Developed pericardial tamponade in flight—performed an emergent pericardial window, 40cc of fresh blood aspirated, recurrent filling. Possible ongoing bleed."
Vargas's eyebrows lifted slightly, though she didn't interrupt.
Jamie continued, already matching his pace to theirs as they began pushing the gurney toward the trauma bay.
"Vitals post-window: BP holding at 90/60 with fluids, HR tachy at 120s, SpO2 stable at 98% on 100% FiO2. Left-sided hemothorax, diminished breath sounds, probable rib fractures. No definitive sign of aortic injury, but we need imaging ASAP."
A resident beside Vargas blinked. "You did the window—mid-flight?"
Jamie didn't break stride. "No choice. If I hadn't, he would've coded before we hit the LZ."
Vargas exchanged a glance with the other attending, Dr. Halloway, before nodding.
"Alright," she said, shifting seamlessly into command mode. "Trauma One, now. Let's get an extended FAST exam and a stat portable chest. Type and cross for six units. Hang two more liters of LR. We're going to need CTA chest and abdomen."
Jamie stepped aside as the trauma team took control of the stretcher.
One of the junior residents, already starting the secondary assessment, spoke up, "Breath sounds are equal, abdomen's distended, pelvis stable to palpation."
The lead trauma surgeon, Dr. Gabriela Vargas, studied Jamie for half a second before turning her focus back to the patient. "FAST scan?"
Jamie nodded. "We need one now. If it's positive, he needs an OR immediately. If not, CTA chest/abdomen with contrast."
Vargas barked out orders to her team. "Page radiology. I want a portable ultrasound here now! Get him typed and crossed for six units!" Then she turned her sharp gaze back to Jamie. "Who the hell are you?"
Before Jamie could answer, a familiar voice cut in.
"He's with me."
Webber stepped into the trauma bay, his presence immediately commanding attention. "Dr. Richard Webber. Chief of Surgery, Seattle Grace." He extended a hand toward Vargas. "We were on a camping trip when we found the accident. Knight here is one of my attendings."
Vargas narrowed her eyes. "Attending? At Seattle Grace?"
Jamie exhaled, his tone matter-of-fact, no arrogance—just pure, unshaken confidence.
"Dr. James Knight. Triple board-certified—general surgery, trauma surgery, cardiothoracic surgery. Former Major, U.S. Army, JSOC. Trauma and combat surgery."
That got Vargas' attention. Her lips pressed together as she turned back to the patient. The FAST probe was already running over the patient's abdomen.
A resident called out: "Positive Morrison's pouch! Free fluid in the abdomen."
Jamie immediately spoke, "That means the bleeding's intra-abdominal. Likely liver or splenic rupture. He won't last through a full scan."
Vargas gritted her teeth. "Alright. We're going straight to the OR."
The team rushed into action.
Jamie was about to move with them when Vargas put a hand on his chest, stopping him. "Hold on—just because you brought him in doesn't mean you scrub in."
Jamie frowned, but before he could respond, Webber stepped in again.
"Gabriela, you know as well as I do, this man just performed emergency thoracic intervention mid-flight." Webber's voice was calm, but firm. "This patient is alive because of Knight. You need him in there."
Vargas hesitated.
Jamie met her gaze head-on. "I know this injury. I've seen it in combat too many times to count. If you want him to have the best shot at surviving, you'll let me scrub in."
For a moment, Vargas didn't move.
Then, she exhaled sharply and jerked her head toward the doors.
"Fine. But you follow my lead. My OR, my patient."
Jamie nodded once. "Understood."
With that, they pushed through the double doors, rolling the patient toward the surgical suite.
Behind them, Webber and the rest of the team exchanged glances.
Webber sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "He really doesn't do things halfway, does he?"
Derek smirked. "No, he doesn't."
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The bright overhead lights glared down on the patient as the surgical team worked with calculated urgency. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors blended with the hum of the ventilator, the sound of suction pulling blood away from the field, and the murmurs of the nurses moving swiftly to keep up.
Dr. Gabriela Vargas stood at the head of the table, leading the procedure, but it was Jamie who took over when the injuries proved worse than expected.
"Damn it," Vargas muttered. The moment they opened the abdomen, a wave of fresh blood welled up—far more than anticipated. "Liver's torn, and we've got ongoing hemorrhage. Clamp that bleeder—NOW."
Jamie was already moving. No hesitation. No wasted movement. His gloved hands moved with surgical precision, clamping the hepatic artery before the field flooded again.
"BP's dropping—60 over 40," the anesthesiologist warned.
"We're losing him." Vargas' voice was tight.
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Jamie muttered, his tone calm, but razor-sharp.
Vargas hesitated for half a second, then nodded. "Go."
Jamie took over, his mind going into that place only the best surgeons knew. The world narrowed. Nothing outside the sterile field mattered. No OR chatter. No observing colleagues. No eyes watching from above.
Just the patient. Just the surgery.
"Suction." A nurse responded immediately. The field cleared.
"Packing." Jamie placed the lap pads quickly, controlling the hemorrhage just enough to assess the extent of the damage.
The liver wasn't just torn—it was shredded in multiple places from the impact trauma. The left lobe was unsalvageable.
"We have to go for a partial hepatectomy. He won't survive if we don't."
Vargas snapped her head toward him. "We have to try repairing first."
Jamie shook his head, already placing temporary clamps on the hepatic veins. "We don't have time. The parenchyma's destroyed. The only way we stop this bleed is resecting the devascularized portion."
Vargas looked at the monitors. BP 55/35. She clenched her jaw. "Fine. Do it."
"Scalpel."
Jamie's fingers were sure, steady, even as the blood kept threatening to obscure the field. His hands moved faster than seemed humanly possible, but never sloppy, never unsure.
Every move was precise.
Every cut was controlled.
The team kept up as best they could, but Jamie was in his element—operating with the kind of speed and confidence that only came from years of high-stakes trauma surgery.
"Holy shit."
Alex Karev's voice was the first to cut through the stunned silence in the observation gallery.
Down below, Jamie moved like a machine, his focus unshakable, his hands a blur of efficiency.
Even Burke—who rarely handed out praise—leaned forward, watching closely.
"I've never seen someone move that fast without making a single mistake," Derek muttered, eyes locked on the procedure.
"Not just fast," Webber said quietly. "He's operating like he already knows the outcome. Like he's two steps ahead of everyone else in that room."
George, who had seen Jamie in the OR before, still looked wide-eyed. "He makes it look... easy."
"Because for him, it is," Webber murmured.
Jamie had resected the damaged portion of the liver, but the patient wasn't out of danger yet.
"Vascular clamps coming off," he called, carefully watching for any secondary bleeding.
For a moment, everything held still—the tension thick enough to snap.
Then—no fresh hemorrhage.
Jamie exhaled. "Liver's holding. Get me the fibrin glue and hemostatic agents."
A scrub nurse handed him the hemostatic materials, and Jamie reinforced the remaining tissue with meticulous care.
The numbers on the monitor started to rise. 70/50… 80/60… stabilizing.
Jamie finally leaned back, his gloves soaked in blood, his job done.
He turned to Vargas. "You want to close, or should I?"
For the first time, Vargas wasn't arguing. Instead, she was just watching him, something unreadable in her expression.
After a beat, she shook her head, exhaling.
"Go ahead, Knight. Finish what you started."
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No one spoke for a long moment.
Then, Burke exhaled and sat back. "Damn."
Derek just nodded, rubbing a hand down his face. "Yeah."
Karev, usually the first to make some sarcastic remark, didn't say anything.
Because what was there to say?
Jamie Knight had just walked into an unfamiliar OR and saved a man's life.
Not just saved him. He had owned the room.
And now?
Now, every single person in that gallery knew exactly who Jamie Knight was.
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Jamie had just finished controlling the hepatic bleeding when a new alert blared from the monitors.
"BP's dropping again! 70 over 40!" the anesthesiologist called out.
Vargas snapped her head up. "What the hell—?"
Jamie's eyes flicked to the patient's chest movement, his surgical instincts kicking in instantly.
Something wasn't right.
His gut told him the abdomen wasn't the problem anymore.
Jamie's gaze shot to the monitors, tracking the patient's oxygen saturation—it was tanking.
He looked up at the anesthesia team. "Breath sounds?"
The anesthesiologist quickly placed a stethoscope on the patient's chest and froze. "Decreased on the left."
Jamie was already moving. "He's collecting blood in the chest."
"Shit." Vargas reached for the ultrasound probe. "We need confirmation of pericardial effusion."
Jamie grabbed the probe, pressing it against the patient's chest. The screen flickered—
There it was. A black crescent surrounding the heart.
Cardiac tamponade.
The OR snapped into action.
Jamie's voice was sharp. "We have to relieve the pressure now."
Vargas swore under her breath. "We don't have time to open—"
Jamie was already grabbing a 14-gauge needle. "Pericardiocentesis first, then a thoracotomy if he keeps deteriorating."
He positioned himself, feeling for the subxiphoid landmark, the only window to the pericardial sac without opening the chest.
"Guide wire ready?"
A nurse handed it to him, her hands steady despite the tension in the room.
Jamie angled the needle, advanced it carefully, piercing through the layers of tissue—then stopped.
For a moment, nothing.
Then, dark red blood filled the syringe.
"Got it."
"Drain it slowly," Vargas instructed, now completely letting him lead. "Not too fast, or we risk decompression shock."
Jamie worked quickly but carefully, pulling 30cc of blood, then another 20.
The monitor stabilized slightly. BP 85/50. Not great, but improving.
"Tamponade's relieved for now, but we still have an active bleed," Jamie said. He glanced up. "Cracking the chest."
Jamie moved fast.
A scalpel slid into his outstretched palm before he even had to ask for it.
He incised along the fifth intercostal space, cutting down through the muscle layers. The rib spreader was positioned next, opening the chest with a sickening crack.
A rush of dark blood spilled out.
Hemothorax.
"Damn it," Vargas muttered. "He's been bleeding into his chest this whole time."
Jamie reached in, his hands deep inside the patient's thoracic cavity. The warmth of the pooled blood against his gloves barely registered as his fingers carefully swept along the lung, searching for the source.
"Left internal mammary artery is shredded," he muttered. "Clamp."
The nurse passed it instantly. Jamie placed it just above the tear.
"We need to suture it off."
"Prolene, double-armed," Vargas ordered, but the scrub nurse was already in motion.
Jamie's hands moved with surgical efficiency.
He worked fast. Fast but controlled.
Needle in. Precise. Controlled. Knot secured.
The arterial flow slowed, then stopped completely.
Jamie checked the pericardium. No new blood pooling. The heart beat strong. The lung was inflating properly.
The monitor confirmed it—BP climbing.
They had him.
Jamie sat back slightly, exhaling through his nose. The OR, which had been a storm of tension, finally settled.
Vargas let out a breath, looking at him. "Well, damn."
Jamie just nodded, already moving to close. "Let's get him off the table."
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The gallery had been silent for the last fifteen minutes.
Burke shook his head slightly, watching Jamie work. "It's like watching a war surgeon in action."
Webber muttered, "That's because he was one."
Derek didn't say anything at first. His eyes were locked on Jamie, watching the way his hands moved—fast, precise, almost mechanical in their efficiency. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just pure instinct.
He had known Jamie before.
Back in New York, Jamie had been a rising star, a cocky, relentless perfectionist who pushed harder than anyone else. He had been damn good then—but what Derek was watching now?
This was something else entirely.
The Jamie he had known had been a gifted surgeon.
The Jamie in that OR?
He was a weapon.
Six years had changed him.
Derek exhaled, rubbing his jaw. "I knew he was good. But I didn't know he was… this."
Alex leaned forward slightly, his voice quiet but serious.
"This guy isn't just good. He's a different breed."
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Jamie stepped out of the OR, peeling off his cap and running a hand through his hair. The exhaustion hadn't set in yet—his body was still running on adrenaline, his mind still sharp. But the moment he stepped into the quieter halls of the surgical ICU, the rush of surgery began to fade, replaced by something heavier.
He turned the corner and spotted Karev leaning against the nurse's station, arms crossed.
"Where's the kid?" Jamie asked, his voice quieter than usual.
Karev jerked his chin toward the waiting room. "Hasn't moved since they brought him in. He won't talk to anyone."
Jamie nodded, already heading that way.
The waiting room was dimly lit, mostly empty except for a small figure curled up in one of the chairs. The boy sat hunched forward, arms wrapped around his knees, staring blankly at the floor.
Jamie slowed as he approached, his footsteps softer now. He had seen this look before—the quiet kind of fear, the one that settled deep inside and didn't let go.
He knew it because he had worn it once.
The boy didn't look up when Jamie sat down beside him.
Jamie let the silence stretch for a moment, knowing better than to force words too soon. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, mirroring the kid's posture.
"Your dad's out of surgery," Jamie said eventually. "It was rough, but he made it. He's in the ICU now. We're going to keep a close eye on him, but right now? He's alive."
The boy's fingers tightened against his sleeves. He still didn't look up.
Jamie exhaled slowly. "You know, when I was your age, I spent a lot of time in waiting rooms just like this."
That got a flicker of movement. A shift. A glance from the corner of the kid's eye.
Jamie continued. "My mom was a surgeon. One of the best. But one day, she left for work… and she never came back."
The boy turned his head slightly, still hesitant but listening now.
Jamie's throat tightened, but he pushed through it. "I remember sitting in that waiting room, thinking if I had done something differently, maybe she wouldn't have gone to work that day. Maybe she wouldn't have gotten in that car. Maybe she'd still be here."
He paused, letting that settle before he looked directly at the boy. "But that wasn't true. And neither is whatever you're telling yourself right now."
The boy's breath hitched, his voice small. "He only took me on the trip because I wanted to go fishing…"
Jamie felt something crack deep inside his chest.
There it was.
The guilt. The helplessness. That desperate need to make sense of something that never should have happened.
Jamie swallowed hard before speaking again, quieter now. "Listen to me. This wasn't your fault. Not even a little bit. You didn't do anything wrong."
The kid sniffed, staring down at his lap. "But—"
"No," Jamie cut in gently but firmly. "Bad things happen, and sometimes, there's nothing we can do to stop them. But what we can do? Is keep going. One step at a time."
Jamie hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, folded piece of paper he had tucked there earlier.
His mother's letter.
The words burned in his mind, just as they had the day before.
He looked at the boy, then spoke softly.
"You are strong. You are kind. You are meant to do great things. And no matter what happens, no matter how hard it gets… you keep moving forward."
For a long moment, the boy didn't say anything.
Then, finally, he nodded—just barely.
Jamie exhaled, feeling the tightness in his own chest loosen just a little.
He reached out and squeezed the boy's shoulder once.
And for the first time in a very, very long time—Jamie believed the words he had just said.
Jamie gave the boy one last reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before standing up. He glanced toward the nurses' station, his gaze sharpening as he spotted Dr. Vargas, the trauma attending on call.
Vargas was already watching him, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The man had been running point on the case since Jamie arrived with the medevac, overseeing the post-op care and coordinating the ICU team.
Jamie exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly before making his way over.
"Vargas," Jamie greeted, his voice even.
The older doctor nodded in return. "Knight. That was good, what you did back there. The kid needed to hear that."
Jamie simply inclined his head, not commenting on it. "How's our patient?"
Vargas sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. "Stable, for now. The pericardial effusion was worse than we expected, but your in-flight interventions kept him from coding before we got him on bypass. His lung is going to take time to recover, and we're watching for post-op complications—DIC, ARDS, the works. But if he makes it through the next 48 hours without incident, his chances improve significantly."
Jamie nodded, his mind already filtering through the possible complications, the interventions that might be needed next. "And neuro status?"
"Promising," Vargas admitted. "No signs of brain swelling so far. We're keeping him sedated to reduce metabolic demand, but initial scans don't show anything catastrophic. He was lucky."
Jamie huffed a quiet breath. "If you call barely making it lucky."
Vargas gave him a sharp look. "I do. And so should you."
Jamie didn't answer.
Vargas watched him for a moment before sighing. "You're one hell of a surgeon, Knight. But you don't let yourself take the win, do you?"
Jamie gave a small, humorless smirk. "Never got used to it."
Vargas shook her head but didn't push. Instead, she grabbed the chart from the counter and flipped through the notes. "Your medevac stunt—"
Jamie raised a brow. "Stunt?"
"Oh, don't give me that," Vargas shot back. "Most guys would've let the flight crew handle it. You, on the other hand, went full field medic before the bird even touched down. You've done this before."
Jamie didn't deny it. "I have."
Vargas studied him. "How many times?"
Jamie exhaled slowly. "Too many."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Then Vargas nodded, her tone shifting. "Well, your call saved his life. You going to stick around for the night, or are you heading back to Seattle?"
Jamie thought about it for half a second. "I'll stay."
Vargas smirked. "Figured. There's a cot in the on-call room. Try and use it."
Jamie didn't answer. He just nodded once and turned back toward the ICU room, his eyes settling on his patient.
Vargas shook her head again, muttering, "Damn army surgeons. You're all the same."
Jamie didn't bother correcting her. Instead, he stepped toward the glass window, watching the steady rise and fall of the patient's chest.
48 hours.
That's what Vargas had said.
Jamie could wait.
Jamie stepped out of the ICU, rubbing his neck as he exhaled. The past several hours weighed on him, but his mind was still sharp, still running through contingency plans, post-op risks, and next steps. But there was something else he needed to handle first.
He spotted Derek and Webber near the waiting area, deep in conversation. They both looked up as Jamie approached.
"How is he?" Derek asked, arms crossed. His concern was genuine, and Jamie could see the question was more than just politeness.
Jamie nodded. "Stable for now. The next 48 hours are critical, but if there are no complications, he's got a real shot at recovery."
Webber studied him, his gaze assessing. "You're staying."
Jamie didn't even need to confirm it. His posture, his tone—it was obvious.
"Yeah," he said simply. "Vargas and his team are solid, but I was in that OR. If something goes sideways, I want to be here."
Derek exhaled, shifting his weight. "You sure? We can wait for you."
Jamie shook his head. "No point. You guys should head back. It's a long drive, and you've got work in the morning." He turned to Derek specifically. "Take the Defender back to the manor. James will handle the rest."
Derek raised a brow. "You trust me with your car?"
Jamie smirked. "It's a Defender, Shepherd. If you manage to break it, I'd almost be impressed."
That earned a chuckle from Webber, but Derek just rolled his eyes.
"And you?" Webber asked, his tone edged with the kind of authority that only a hospital chief could manage. "You planning on actually sleeping at some point?"
Jamie shrugged. "Probably. Vargas mentioned a cot."
Webber hummed, clearly unimpressed, but he didn't push it. Instead, he rested a hand on Jamie's shoulder. "You did good today."
Jamie didn't respond to that. He never did.
Derek clapped him on the back. "Try not to perform any more life-saving surgeries before sunrise."
Jamie smirked. "No promises."
Webber shook his head, already turning toward the exit. "Let's go, Shepherd. Before he ropes us into another trauma."
Derek hesitated for a second longer, then nodded. "Call if you need anything."
Jamie just gave a small nod in return.
He watched them walk away, disappearing through the double doors.
Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned back toward the ICU.
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The steady beeping of the monitors in the ICU filled the silence, punctuated only by the occasional hiss of a ventilator and the shuffle of nurses moving between patients. Jamie stood just outside the glass partition, arms crossed, watching the man he had just fought to keep alive. Vargas had done good work, the entire surgical team had, but the real battle was still ahead. Recovery was slow, unpredictable.
Across the room, Toby sat in a stiff hospital chair, curled up in a way that looked both too small and too grown-up all at once. He hadn't left his father's bedside since they wheeled him in.
Jamie sighed. He knew that look.
The tight grip on the bed rail. The too-wide eyes, locked on every rise and fall of his father's chest, as if sheer willpower alone could make sure he kept breathing.
Jamie had worn that same look a long time ago.
Pushing the door open, Jamie stepped inside. Toby barely glanced at him.
"You should get some rest," Jamie said, keeping his voice even.
The kid shook his head. "What if he wakes up?"
Jamie pulled up a chair beside him. "Then he'll want you awake. You'll be no good to him exhausted."
Toby swallowed but didn't answer. Jamie leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Where's your mom?"
Silence stretched between them. Then, Toby's voice came, small, quiet.
"She died. Cancer."
Jamie exhaled through his nose. Of course.
No wonder the kid looked like this. The way he clung to his dad, like letting go would mean losing him too.
Jamie stared at the unconscious man in the hospital bed. The monitor kept a steady rhythm, but he knew how fast things could change.
"You know," Jamie said after a moment, "when I was your age, I had two different childhoods."
Toby finally looked at him.
Jamie smirked slightly, leaning back. "In New York, it was etiquette lessons, prep schools, and five-course dinners where I had to know exactly which fork to use for the salad. Strict schedules, polished shoes, and always standing up straight."
Toby frowned. "That sounds… terrible."
Jamie huffed a quiet laugh. "You have no idea. But my summers? Those were different." His voice softened slightly. "In Seattle, my mother's world took over. Knight Manor. Galas, charity fundraisers, summer balls. I spent nights in tailored suits, shaking hands with people twice my age, memorizing the art of conversation and the weight of legacy."
Toby watched him, listening.
Jamie's smirk faded just a little. "But when my dad wasn't deployed, I got a different kind of education. He took me out to a cabin—middle of nowhere. No cell service, no TV, just us. He taught me how to shoot, how to fish, how to survive." He exhaled, running a hand down his face. "He always said a man should know how to take care of himself."
Toby shifted slightly. "My dad was in the Army," he admitted. "Now he's a cop."
Jamie nodded. "Then I bet he taught you the same thing."
Toby nodded, looking back at his father. His posture loosened, just a little. His eyes drooped, the exhaustion finally catching up to him.
Jamie stood, pulling a blanket from the supply closet and draping it over the boy. He didn't stir.
Jamie watched him for a second longer before stepping out of the ICU.
Dr. Vargas was waiting for him just outside.
"You did good today," she said.
Jamie ran a hand down his face. "Yeah, well. I've had practice."
Vargas studied him. "You're staying the night?"
Jamie nodded.
She sighed, crossing her arms. "Look, there's a problem. The insurance company is refusing coverage. They're claiming pre-existing conditions. The kid's dad is a cop—solid job, but city insurance is a nightmare."
Jamie clenched his jaw. Of course, they were pulling this bullshit.
"How much?"
Vargas hesitated. "You don't have to—"
"How much, Vargas?"
She sighed. "Hundreds of thousands. Trauma care, ICU, post-op. And that's before rehab."
Jamie pulled out his phone. There was only one person he needed to call.
"Jamie?" His grandmother's voice was soft but alert, even at this hour.
"Nana," Jamie exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need a favor."
"Of course, dear. What is it?"
Jamie glanced back through the ICU glass, watching Toby sleep. "There's a boy. Toby. His dad was in a bad wreck. Insurance won't cover it."
His grandmother was silent for a moment. Then, a soft hum.
"You know," she mused, "I do happen to run a foundation built for things like this."
Jamie felt the tension in his chest loosen. "So that's a yes?"
His grandmother chuckled. "Consider it handled."
"Thank you," he murmured.
"Of course, sweetheart," she said warmly. "You have such a good heart."
Jamie swallowed around the lump in his throat.
"Get some rest," his grandmother said gently.
Jamie exhaled. "Yeah," he said, glancing at Toby. "I think I will."
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Jamie woke to the sound of hushed voices outside the ICU. The stiffness in his neck told him he'd slept in a chair, but for the first time in weeks, he actually felt rested.
He stood, stretching, before stepping into the patient's room.
Toby was already awake, watching his dad breathe.
"Morning," Jamie said.
Toby sat up quickly. "Is he—?"
Jamie offered a reassuring nod. "Stable. Better than expected, actually."
Toby let out a breath, relief washing over his face.
Jamie hesitated before crouching down to his level. "Listen, Toby. You did good. You called for help. You saved his life."
The boy shook his head. "I just wanted to go fishing."
Jamie exhaled. "You're not responsible for this." He met Toby's eyes. "But you are responsible for what happens next."
Toby frowned. "What do you mean?"
Jamie smiled slightly. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Toby hesitated. Then, quietly—"A doctor. Like you."
Jamie studied him. "That's a big dream."
Toby straightened his shoulders. "I mean it."
Jamie nodded. "Alright." He extended a hand. "You get straight As? I'll get you a scholarship."
Toby blinked. "Wait—seriously?"
Jamie's expression softened. "Seriously."
Toby grinned, gripping his hand in a firm shake.
Jamie stood. "Now go get some breakfast. Your dad's got a long recovery, and he's gonna need you strong."
Toby nodded, stepping toward the door. Just before he left, he looked back.
"Thank you, Dr. Knight."
Jamie smiled. "Anytime, kid."
As Toby disappeared down the hall, Jamie stood there for a moment, taking it all in.
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Jamie stepped out of the hospital, the crisp morning air hitting him as he rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness from a night spent in a chair. The sun had barely risen, casting long shadows across the parking lot. The hospital entrance was quiet, save for the occasional nurse coming in for a shift change.
Pulling out his phone, he scrolled to a familiar number and hit call.
James picked up after the second ring. "Master James," the butler greeted, his voice calm and composed as always.
Jamie sighed. "James, I need a ride."
There was a pause. Then, "I take it the Defender is still with Dr. Shepherd?"
Jamie rubbed his temple. "Yeah. They should've brought it back to the manor by now. Can you send a driver?"
"Of course, sir. I'll have someone dispatched immediately. Estimated arrival in two hours."
Jamie exhaled, nodding even though James couldn't see it. "Thanks, James."
There was a brief pause before the older man spoke again, his voice softer. "How are you, sir?"
Jamie blinked, caught off guard.
He swallowed. "I'm fine."
A knowing hum came from the other end of the line. "Of course, sir."
Jamie smirked slightly. James had known him since he was a child—he could never get anything past him.
"Just… let Nana know I'm coming home," Jamie said, voice quieter.
"Of course. We'll be expecting you."
Jamie ended the call, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
His body was exhausted, his mind still wired from the last twenty-four hours. But as he stood there, letting the cold morning air clear his thoughts, one thing was clear—
It was time to go home.
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Jamie walked back into the hospital, figuring he might as well get some coffee while waiting for the driver. As he stepped into the small café near the lobby, he ran into Dr. Vargas, who was reviewing charts over a coffee of her own.
"Leaving already?" she asked, arching a brow as she looked up from her paperwork.
Jamie nodded. "Yeah. My ride will be here in a couple of hours."
Vargas studied him for a second before nodding. "You did good here, Knight."
Jamie smirked. "I have my moments."
She shook her head. "More than moments. Your instincts, your execution in the OR—hell, even your way with the kid—it's impressive." She took a sip of her coffee before giving him a pointed look. "You ever think about switching to trauma full-time?"
Jamie huffed a quiet laugh. "Not my first time hearing that."
"Maybe you should consider it," she mused. "You thrive in chaos."
Jamie didn't respond immediately. She wasn't wrong.
Vargas must have seen the debate playing out in his head, because she smirked. "Well, if you ever want a change of pace, we'd be happy to have you here."
Jamie chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll keep that in mind."
He bid her goodbye, grabbing his coffee and making his way back to the waiting area.
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By the time the black luxury sedan pulled up to the hospital entrance, Jamie was more than ready to leave. The driver, an older man dressed in a sharp black suit, stepped out and opened the door for him.
"Dr. Knight," the driver greeted politely.
Jamie gave him a nod before slipping inside, sinking into the leather seat with a sigh.
The ride was smooth, the quiet hum of the engine and the soft classical music playing through the speakers a stark contrast to the chaos of the last twenty-four hours.
As the city skyline came into view, Jamie exhaled, his mind already shifting back to what waited for him in Seattle—the hospital, his responsibilities, the mess he left behind before this trip.
But for now?
For now, he let himself close his eyes, just for a moment.
He was going home.