The Knight’s Oath: Grey’s Anatomy

The water ran hot, streaming over Jamie's hands as he scrubbed with steady, practiced movements. He barely registered the sting of antiseptic soap or the quiet hum of the hospital beyond the doors. His focus was singular—Harold O'Malley was on that table, and he was about to make history.

Beside him, Webber scrubbed in silence, his movements slower, more deliberate. The weight of his experience showed in the way he worked, taking his time, like he was thinking through every possible complication before they even stepped inside.

Finally, Webber broke the silence, his voice low but firm.

"You sure about this, Knight?"

Jamie didn't pause, didn't look up, just rinsed the lather from his arms. His hands were steady. His mind was clear.

"You saw the scans, Chief. You know the alternatives."

Webber sighed through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

"Alternatives don't always mean better." He finally glanced over. "We could get in there and decide it's not worth the risk. You willing to make that call?"

Jamie grabbed a sterile towel, drying his hands with the same controlled precision that defined everything he did.

"I don't hesitate when it comes to saving a life."

Webber gave a quiet, knowing nod, but his gaze was sharp.

"That's what I'm worried about."

Jamie met his eyes fully this time. A challenge. A warning.

"Harold knows the risks," Jamie said evenly. "And I know what I'm doing."

Webber studied him for a long moment before nodding once.

"Alright, then." A pause. Then, quieter, almost begrudging, he added, "Let's go make history."

Jamie discarded the towel, pushed through the doors, and stepped into the OR

The moment Jamie stepped inside, the rhythm of the room settled into place. The steady beeping of the monitors, the faint hiss of the ventilator, the soft rustle of surgical gowns.

Meredith was already in place at the table, hands folded in front of her, eyes flicking toward Jamie as he entered. "Vitals are stable. Anesthesia's holding." A pause. "We're ready."

Nurses moved around them, setting out instruments, confirming medications, preparing for the first incision. Everything was in motion, but the tension hadn't lifted. This wasn't just another surgery. This was personal.

Jamie took his place, glancing down at Harold's still form. He was covered in sterile drapes, the only visible part of him the section of exposed skin where the incision would begin.

Jamie's gaze flicked upward.

The gallery was full.

He had expected an audience—this surgery had never been attempted before—but seeing it was something else entirely. The overhead lights cast a glow over the packed rows of onlookers. Attendings. Fellows. Residents. Interns.

Near the front, Yang, Karev, and Stevens sat together, leaning forward slightly. None of them were scrubbed in—they weren't at that level yet—but the fact that they were here at all meant they understood what was at stake.

------------------------------

Karev scoffed, shifting in his seat as his voice cut through the low buzz of conversation. "I wonder what she did to get in on O'Malley's surgery. Maybe I should've slept with Shepherd."

Yang didn't even look at him. "Shut up, Karev." Her eyes were locked on the table, already zeroed in. "They're starting."

Stevens nudged Karev's arm, barely hiding her grin. "Might've worked. I hear McDreamy's got a thing for bad decisions."

----------------------------

The weight of the gallery didn't faze Jamie.

Let them watch.

Bailey stood beside Webber, arms folded. Her expression was unreadable, but Jamie knew that look. It wasn't skepticism—it was calculation. Bailey didn't question his skill. She just wanted to see if he could actually pull this off.

His fingers flexed once, then steadied.

The first step was his.

He looked up, eyes locking with Meredith across the table.

"10 blade."

A scalpel was placed in his palm. The cool metal pressed into his skin, familiar, steady.

The room was silent except for the steady beep of the monitors and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. The surgical lights overhead cast sharp illumination on Harold O'Malley's still body beneath the sterile drapes.

A camera mounted above recorded everything—the first documented attempt at fluorescence-guided tumor resection in an esophageal cancer patient with prior valve replacement surgery.

The weight of the gallery didn't faze Jamie.

Let them watch.

Bailey stood beside Webber, arms folded. Her expression was unreadable, but Jamie recognized it. This wasn't doubt—it was expectation.

She wanted to see how he pulled this off.

Jamie flexed his fingers once, rolling his shoulders, then steadied.

He looked up, eyes locking with Meredith.

"10 blade."

The scalpel pressed into his palm, cool and familiar.

The room fell silent, except for the steady beeping of the monitors and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. The overhead lights cast sharp illumination over Harold O'Malley's still body, his chest rising and falling in mechanical precision.

Jamie pressed the scalpel to skin and made the first incision.

The initial cut was a precise midline laparotomy, slicing cleanly through the epidermis, subcutaneous fat, and fascia. So far, so good.

Bailey reached for the Bovie electrocautery, passing it over.

"Cauterizing," Jamie murmured, sealing small vessels as he carefully dissected layer by layer.

Meredith's voice was quiet but focused. "Bleeding's minimal."

Jamie gave a slight nod, eyes locked on the field. "For now."

The first complication was already there, waiting.

The retractor was placed, exposing the abdominal cavity.

Meredith spoke first. "Liver retracted. Diaphragm exposed."

Jamie's fingers adjusted slightly on the instruments. "Transecting the left triangular ligament."

The ligament was cut, allowing the liver to be gently retracted, unveiling the stomach and lower esophagus.

And then—

There it was.

The tumor.

Thick. Infiltrative. Aggressive.

Webber exhaled quietly. "It's worse than the imaging suggested."

Jamie didn't react outwardly, but internally, his surgical plan was already shifting.

Meredith's voice was quieter now. "We can still remove it, right?"

Bailey's tone was flat. "We don't have a choice."

Jamie extended his hand. "Fluorescence scope."

Bailey passed it over as Meredith adjusted the near-infrared light source. The contrast agent—indocyanine green (ICG) dye—had bound to the cancer cells.

The screen glowed.

Jamie studied it carefully. The fluorescence-guided imaging revealed the tumor's true spread.

Bailey muttered, "It's deeper than expected."

Jamie's grip on the instrument remained steady. "We knew this wouldn't be easy."

Meredith swallowed. "With his heart condition… Even if we get the tumor out, can he take it?"

Jamie didn't sugarcoat it. "His body's already in distress. Every cut we make pushes him closer to the line."

Webber nodded. "Then we better not waste a single one."

Jamie reached for the Metzenbaum scissors, delicately dissecting the tissue planes around the esophagus.

Every move had to be exact.

The esophagus lay dangerously close to the aorta, the vagus nerve, and critical blood vessels.

One wrong cut, and Harold wouldn't leave this table.

Bailey's voice was calm, but there was a weight to it. "You know what you're doing, Knight."

Jamie's hands didn't shake. "I always do."

Then, the second complication hit.

"BP dropping," anesthesia called.

Jamie's gaze snapped to the monitors. Harold's blood pressure was slipping—not fast, but enough to be a warning sign.

Webber's voice was even. "His heart's struggling."

Jamie adjusted his grip, working faster but not rushing. "Increase pressors. Give me room."

Meredith called out, "Pressors up. Fluids running."

The tumor was peeling away, section by section, but then—

A burst of blood flooded the field.

"Bleeder," Bailey snapped.

Jamie didn't panic.

"Suction," he ordered.

Meredith was already there, clearing the field as Jamie clamped down.

Webber's voice was firm. "This is where we lose people, Knight."

Jamie barely glanced at him. "Not today."

He worked quickly, pinpointing the source of the bleed.

Too deep for a stitch. Too close to a major vessel for blind clamping.

A beat.

Then—Jamie pivoted.

"Fibrin patch. Now."

A nurse passed the bioengineered patch into his waiting hand. Jamie applied it with precision, reinforcing the delicate tissue.

The hemorrhage slowed. Then stopped.

Bailey let out a breath. "Alright. That was close."

Jamie was already moving again.

The hardest part came next: removing the esophageal section without disrupting the vagus nerve or damaging circulation.

"Clamp," Jamie ordered.

A vascular clamp was placed, securing the blood supply.

"Transecting."

The final cut was made. The tumor was out.

Webber exhaled.

Bailey's gaze flicked up to Jamie. "You still have to rebuild it."

Jamie was already ahead.

They weren't just removing the cancer—they were rebuilding what was lost.

The stomach was mobilized, reshaped into a tube to function as a replacement esophagus.

Jamie reached for the stapler, methodically anastomosing the new esophagus to the remaining structure, ensuring proper blood supply.

Meredith watched closely, suctioning when needed, passing instruments without being asked.

Jamie arched a brow. "You want a career in CT surgery, Grey?"

Bailey didn't look up. "I want to save lives."

Bailey gave a small nod, almost approving, before turning back to Jamie. "How's it holding?"

Jamie tested the anastomosis with intraoperative endoscopy.

The connection was intact. No leaks. No compromised blood flow.

Webber sighed, stepping back slightly. "I can't believe that worked."

Jamie finally looked up, meeting Webber's gaze.

"It was never a question of if," Jamie said, voice even. "Just how."

The final sutures went in clean.

Jamie's hands moved with practiced ease, the needle gliding through skin, each stitch precise, symmetrical, effortless. Despite the grueling hours of resection, despite the risk, despite everything stacked against them—Harold O'Malley had made it through.

Meredith watched intently from across the table, eyes flicking between Jamie's hands and the sutures he was placing.

"You don't have to give him that big of a scar," she pointed out, voice calm but curious.

Jamie didn't pause. "No need to. The incision was midline; I can close it cleanly."

Bailey tilted her head slightly. "Most trauma surgeons don't care about aesthetics."

Jamie's hands never faltered. "I'm not most trauma surgeons."

Across the table, Webber studied his technique closely, his brow furrowing as he observed the meticulous, almost artistic precision of Jamie's sutures. Each stitch was perfect. The kind of work that took years to master.

Finally, as Jamie tied off the last knot, Webber spoke. "That's damn near flawless."

Jamie simply nodded, cutting the last suture.

Webber folded his arms. "How the hell does a guy who's been doing trauma in war zones for the past five years have this level of precision?"

Jamie didn't look up as he inspected the closure. His voice was steady, almost clinical.

"I did my residency and cardiothoracic fellowship before I joined the military," he explained. "I trained myself to be as clean and precise as possible. Always trying to be perfect."

Webber's expression remained unreadable as he listened.

Jamie continued, voice even as he worked. "But trauma?" He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. "Trauma is messy. Most of those guys—they're butchers."

Bailey arched a brow. "Butchers?"

Jamie nodded, finally glancing up as he reached for the saline. "Most don't concern themselves with clean work. Their only job is to keep the patient alive with whatever they have at hand. When you're in the field, you don't get luxury. You make do with what you have."

He irrigated the wound, his tone thoughtful.

"I trained in trauma because it was what was needed at the time. But I never wanted to lose my precision. So I learned to be faster." His eyes flicked to Webber. "Faster than the butchers. But without leaving the body a mess."

Meredith, silent until now, spoke up. "And did it work?"

Jamie's lips quirked slightly, but there was no humor in it. "It's the reason I climbed the ranks so quickly."

Meredith studied him for a beat before asking, "Do you miss it?"

Jamie stilled.

For a moment, the sounds of the OR filled the silence—the beeping of the monitors, the soft hiss of the ventilator, the rustle of surgical gowns.

Then—quietly, almost too softly—he answered.

"Sometimes."

The admission hung in the air.

"It was simple." Jamie finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. "You focused on what was in front of you. No distractions, no second-guessing. The pressure…it made you calm in a way you wouldn't expect."

His hands were still, resting lightly on the edge of the table, but his voice carried something distant.

"What I miss most?" He exhaled. "The HALO jumps."

Bailey frowned. "HALO jumps?"

Jamie grinned slightly, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes.

"High Altitude, Low Opening. You jump out of a plane at thirty thousand feet." His gaze flickered, like he was remembering something. "It makes you feel alive. Like nothing can stop you."

Meredith tilted her head. "That doesn't sound relaxing."

Jamie's smirk deepened. "You only get that feeling when you're close to death."

The room was silent.

Webber watched him carefully, something unreadable in his eyes.

Jamie's voice was lower when he continued. "One wrong decision, and it's over." He flexed his fingers absently. "Some people break under that kind of pressure. Others are shaped by it."

He blinked, as if snapping back to the present, and turned to Webber. "Closure looks good. No internal bleeding. We're done here."

Webber didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded.

"Let's close up."

-----------------------------

Jamie pulled off his gloves, discarding them into the bin before stripping out of his surgical gown. Bailey did the same beside him, stretching her shoulders slightly as they stepped out into the hallway.

"Good work in there," she said, her voice carrying its usual no-nonsense tone.

Jamie nodded. "Could've been worse."

Bailey side-eyed him. "Just accept the compliment."

Jamie shook his head, pushing through the door that led toward the waiting room.

"Let's go update O'Malley."

-----------------------------

Webber remained behind in the scrub room, watching as Jamie and Bailey disappeared down the hall.

He exhaled through his nose, reaching for the sink, rubbing a hand over his face.

Jamie Knight was a damn good surgeon.

But there was something about the way he spoke. The way he moved. The way his past still sat so heavily on his shoulders.

Webber's gaze dropped to the spot where Jamie had been standing just moments ago.

The military didn't just train him. It shaped him. Molded him. And it wasn't letting go.

With a quiet frown, Webber turned off the lights and left the room.

-----------------------------

Waiting Room

George paced in uneven steps, his arms crossed, head down.

He'd stopped checking the clock. It only made the minutes drag.

Callie entered and immediately spotted him.

"Hey."

George glanced up, distracted. "Hey."

She looked around the near-empty waiting area.

"You're alone? Where's your family?"

"Eating. They like to eat."

Callie nodded. "You're pacing."

George exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. He's been in surgery for a while."

"That's a good thing. It means they're being thorough."

George shifted, jaw tight. "Or it means there were complications."

Callie didn't hesitate. "Somebody would have told you if there were complications."

George nodded, but his hands still clenched at his sides.

Callie studied him, voice lowering. "It's okay to be scared."

George shook his head. "I'm not scared."

"If you are, you can talk to me."

"I'm not scared."

Callie stepped into his space, narrowing her eyes. "You sure about that?"

George blinked. "Okay, now I'm scared of you."

Callie let out a breath. "Damn it. I was trying to stare you down."

George frowned. "Stare me down?"

"Yeah. It worked on Shepherd."

His brow lifted. "Seriously?"

Callie crossed her arms. "Wait, let me try again."

George shook his head. "Nope. Still scared."

Callie tilted her head. "Nothing?"

George sighed. "Hold on. I'll be right back."

Before she could question him, he spotted movement near the doorway.

Bailey and Meredith entered first. Jamie followed.

They were still in scrubs.

George's stomach twisted, but there was no panic in their expressions.

That meant his dad was still alive.

He moved toward them.

Bailey's gaze locked onto George first. No hesitation. No sugarcoating.

Meredith stood beside her, steady.

Jamie, just behind them, was still pulling off his surgical cap, his jaw tight with the weight of the last few hours.

"The surgery went well," Jamie said.

George's breath caught, then rushed out all at once.

Jamie continued, his voice calm, measured. "The tumor was more extensive than the scans showed. We had to take more than expected."

George's stomach clenched. "How much more?"

Bailey spoke this time. "It was aggressive, George. But we got all of it."

Jamie gave a short nod. "Now we wait. The next 48 hours are critical."

George gripped the back of a chair, steadying himself. "What do we watch for?"

Jamie continued. "His kidneys. If they start failing, that's our first warning sign of multi-organ failure. If they hold up, that's a good sign."

George nodded, his mind already running through possibilities, worst-case scenarios.

Meredith's voice softened. "Do you want to see him?"

George exhaled. "Yeah."

Bailey gestured toward the hallway. "Come on, then."

They turned toward the recovery room.

Jamie followed, silent.

--------------------------------------

The room was quiet.

Harold O'Malley lay still in the hospital bed, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. The ventilator hissed softly.

George stopped just inside the doorway.

His mother and brothers were behind him.

George took another breath, then turned to face them.

"You should prepare yourselves," he said, voice measured but tight. "This was a much more extensive surgery than the heart valve replacement."

Louise's expression shifted, worry tightening around her eyes.

"There's probably still a tube in his throat, helping him breathe," George continued. "And half of his stomach was removed, along with part of his esophagus. There'll be a big scar."

Jerry glanced toward the bed. "How bad?"

George's throat tightened. "It's… a lot. Just be ready."

His mother reached out, squeezing his arm gently. "Sweetheart, we'll be fine."

George nodded once, then turned and stepped aside.

George stopped in the doorway.

His mother and brothers walked up to Harold.

Louise's voice broke the silence.

"Welcome back, sweetheart."

Jerry's gaze landed on Harold's chest, taking in the incision site. "That's a cool scar."

George didn't move.

Didn't step forward.

His dad was alive. But barely.

Meredith moved closer, her voice low.

"You need to breathe."

George blinked, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.

"He's my dad."

Meredith nodded. "I know."

His breath shuddered. "He's my dad."

Meredith didn't say anything this time.

She just leaned her head against his shoulder.

Letting him process it.

-------------------------------

Cafeteria – 4 PM

Jamie dropped his tray onto the table and sat across from Derek. "Hey."

Derek didn't look up.

His fork hovered over his plate, but he hadn't taken a bite. His eyes were distant, unfocused.

Jamie frowned. "Shepherd?"

Derek sighed, rubbing his face. "It's Meredith."

Jamie raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Derek exhaled, shaking his head. "Her snoring…" He sounded truly exhausted. "It's keeping me up at night. It's been days since I last slept properly."

Jamie picked up his coffee. "You can survive back-to-back surgeries, but snoring is what's breaking you?"

Derek shot him a look. "You haven't heard it."

Jamie smirked. "So sleep on the couch or something."

Derek shook his head. "Tried. She woke up, saw me, and said, 'I am a girl with abandonment issues, and you can't do this to me.'"

Jamie almost choked on his coffee.

He set the cup down, coughing, before breaking into laughter. "She actually said that?"

Derek nodded, deadpan. "With complete sincerity."

Jamie let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Yeah, you're screwed."

Derek sighed, rubbing his temples. "I know."

Jamie took another bite of his food, still grinning, when Derek suddenly turned toward him.

"How do I get her to open up?"

Jamie blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

Derek exhaled. "She keeps people at a distance. She acts like she's fine, but she's not. She doesn't let people in, not really." He leaned back slightly, gaze thoughtful. "She's you."

Jamie frowned. "Excuse me?"

Derek lifted his fork but didn't take a bite. "Meredith. She's you. She bottles everything up until she can't anymore. She acts like she doesn't care, but she cares too much. She keeps the people she loves at arm's length because letting them in means letting them hurt her." He finally stabbed at his food. "Sound familiar?"

Jamie didn't react right away.

He reached for his coffee, taking a sip, letting Derek's words settle.

Then—he deflected.

"How's Burke?"

Derek paused at the sudden subject change, watching Jamie for a beat before exhaling.

"Still in recovery." He set his fork down, rubbing his jaw. "He's frustrated, but the tremor is gone. That's the important part."

Jamie nodded, rolling a fry between his fingers. "And Cristina?"

Derek sighed. "She won't visit him."

Jamie didn't say anything right away.

He knew that kind of silence. The kind where you cared too much but didn't know what to do with it.

Finally, he spoke. "That'll eat at her later."

Derek huffed. "I know."

Jamie took another sip of his coffee, gaze distant.

Derek, still watching him, suddenly smirked. "So, Boston?"

Jamie didn't even look up. "Eat your damn food, Shepherd."

Derek chuckled, shaking his head.

Jamie took another sip of his coffee, his expression unreadable.

Then—Jamie's pager went off.

He barely glanced at the number before tucking his coffee cup under his arm and standing.

Derek glanced at him. "Who is it?"

Jamie exhaled through his nose. "Webber."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "You in trouble?"

Jamie gave him a flat look. "Always."

-----------------------------

Jamie knocked once before stepping inside.

Webber was at his desk, flipping through a thin but deliberate stack of papers. A report. He didn't look up immediately, but when he did, his expression was unreadable.

"Sit down, Knight."

Jamie sat.

There was a pause, brief but weighted. Webber finally set the papers down, folding his hands in front of him.

"The board reviewed your proposal."

Jamie exhaled through his nose. "And?"

Webber held his gaze. "They declined the full trauma center."

Jamie didn't react right away.

He had expected pushback—but not a full rejection.

Webber let the silence settle before continuing.

"That being said, they've agreed to expand the ER."**

Jamie's brow furrowed slightly, listening.

Webber leaned forward. "We're pushing for Trauma Level 1 certification. I spoke to a friend, and if all goes as planned, we'll have the qualification by the end of the month."

Jamie nodded once. That was something.

Webber picked up a folder from his desk and slid it toward him. "You should start submitting a list of personnel. Who you want for the trauma team."

Jamie glanced at the file but didn't pick it up yet.

Webber watched him closely before speaking again.

"Now, here's where things get complicated."

Jamie lifted his gaze.

"You need to decide if you're committing to trauma, or if you're going back to cardio."

Jamie didn't blink.

"This isn't about juggling multiple fields," Webber continued. "The surgery today? The precision, the control—you could be Harper Avery material if you focus on your research."

Webber let that hang before adding, "I spoke to Rhodes. And a few acquaintances in New York."

Jamie exhaled slowly. "Of course you did."

Webber tilted his head, studying him. "They all said the same thing."**

Jamie said nothing.

"They said you're the next Walter Tapley."

Jamie's fingers curled slightly against his knee.

Webber continued. "Tapley was my mentor. The man was a surgical legend. And Knight, after watching you today—I believe it."

Jamie held his gaze, but something in his expression flickered.

Webber leaned back slightly. "You can reach that level. If you focus."

Jamie exhaled, finally leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

"You think I can be Tapley?"

Webber didn't hesitate. "I think you could be better."

The words settled between them, weighty and certain.

Webber let the silence stretch before finally speaking again. "Think about it."

Jamie nodded once, but didn't commit.

Webber studied him for another beat, then shifted gears.

"How's O'Malley?"

Jamie straightened. "Stable. But he hasn't woken up yet."

Webber exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Keep me updated."

Jamie gave a short nod, then stood.

Webber watched him for another second before leaning back.

"Knight."

Jamie glanced back at him.

"Don't waste your potential."

Jamie didn't answer.

He just left the office.

---------------------------

Burke was lying in his hospital bed, his posture relaxed but his expression unreadable. The monitors beeped softly in the background, the rhythmic sound blending with the faint murmur of hospital noise filtering in from the hallway.

Jamie stepped inside, hands tucked into his coat pockets.

"How are you holding up?"

Burke barely glanced at him. "Recovering."

Jamie smiled slightly. "Yeah, I gathered that."

Burke exhaled, shifting slightly in the bed.

Jamie took a step closer. "O'Malley's dad is stable for now. Thought you should know."

Burke gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable.

Jamie hesitated for a brief moment before continuing. "How's your recovery going? If you don't mind me asking."

Burke's lips pressed together briefly before he answered. "I don't mind." A pause. "But I do mind if you tell Cristina."

Jamie blinked. "Yang?" He frowned. "Why would I need to tell her that?"

Burke didn't respond right away, but Jamie saw the flicker of tension in his jaw.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of Jamie's mouth. "So the gossip from the nurses is true then. You and Yang had a fight."

Burke exhaled sharply. "We didn't fight. We're just—" He paused briefly, his tone shifting, quieter. "Silent."

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Whatever you say." He pulled out the chair beside the bed and sat down. "You know, your relationship with Yang is weird."

Burke huffed a small, resigned laugh. "Yes."

Jamie shook his head but let it go.

"Anyway, that's not why I'm here."

Burke tilted his head slightly, waiting.

Jamie exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Webber talked to me earlier. He wanted me to decide—either I focus on trauma or I go back to cardio."

Burke studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "And?"

Jamie leaned back in his chair. "Since you're head of cardio, I wanted your advice."

Burke didn't respond immediately. He just watched Jamie, as if trying to gauge what he really wanted to hear.

Finally, he spoke.

"What do you want, Knight?"

Jamie exhaled slowly.

That was the real question, wasn't it?

He just wasn't sure he had an answer yet.

Burke studied Jamie for a long moment, his fingers idly tapping against the blanket covering his lap.

"What do you want, Knight?"

Jamie exhaled, shifting in his chair. "That's the problem, isn't it? I don't know."

Burke tilted his head slightly. "No, I think you do."

Jamie huffed, looking away for a second before meeting Burke's gaze again. "You think I'm holding out on you?"

Burke's expression didn't change. "I think you're holding out on yourself."

Silence stretched between them.

Jamie flexed his hands briefly before resting them on his knees. "Webber thinks I could be the next Tapley."

Burke let out a soft exhale through his nose. "Of course he does."

Jamie arched an eyebrow. "You don't sound surprised."

Burke shook his head. "I'm not. You have Tapley's precision, his instincts. His ability to innovate under pressure." He met Jamie's gaze. "But do you have his ambition?"

Jamie leaned back slightly, letting Burke's words sink in.

"Tapley dedicated his life to cardio," Burke continued. "He lived in the OR. Every waking moment was spent thinking about the next breakthrough, the next research project, the next case that would change medicine."

He let that settle before adding, "Is that the life you want?"

Jamie didn't answer right away.

He had spent years not having a choice. The military dictated where he went, what he did, how he lived. The thought of choosing a single path now felt… unnatural.

Burke must have noticed his hesitation, because he spoke again. "You came back from war and immediately immersed yourself in trauma. There's a reason for that."

Jamie ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "Yeah. It's what I was good at. It was necessary."

Burke nodded slightly. "But now? You're in a place where you can do more than what's necessary. You can build something. Trauma or cardio—either way, you won't fail. But the choice isn't about success."

Jamie narrowed his eyes slightly. "Then what is it about?"

Burke held his gaze. "Satisfaction."

The weight of the word settled between them.

Jamie looked down at his hands, thinking.

"When you're in the OR, performing a surgery that no one else could do, saving a life—does that make you feel more alive?" Burke asked. "Or is it the chaos of trauma? The adrenaline, the split-second decisions?"

Jamie stayed silent.

Burke sighed, adjusting himself in the bed. "If you choose cardio, you could push boundaries. Change the field. Win a Harper Avery." He paused. "But if that's not enough for you, then you already have your answer."

Jamie let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. "I hate it when people make me answer my own questions."

Burke gave a small smirk, shifting slightly. "You should be used to it by now."

Jamie huffed a soft laugh but didn't respond.

He wasn't ready to make a decision yet.

But something about this conversation made him realize he was getting closer.

------------------------------

Jamie stepped through the hospital doors and into the cool evening air. The sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows over the pavement. The shift change had begun, doctors and nurses filing out in small clusters, some laughing, some exhausted.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

He still had Webber's words in his head. Burke's, too.

Jamie pushed the thoughts down. Later. He'd think about it later.

Then—movement near the parking lot.

Derek and Meredith stood near her car, talking quietly.

Or rather, Derek was talking. Meredith was leaning against the hood of her car, arms crossed, her face impassive.

Jamie didn't know the details of their situation, but he knew the look Derek had—the kind that meant he was trying to reach someone who kept slipping through his fingers.

Jamie slowed as he approached, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Hey, Shepherd."

Derek glanced up. "Knight."

Jamie tilted his head slightly. "You up for a drink? Joe's. On me."

Derek arched an eyebrow. "That's dangerous. You don't usually offer free drinks."

Jamie shook his head slightly. "Consider it an end-of-shift miracle."

Derek glanced at Meredith, who still hadn't said much.

She looked between them before sighing. "Go. I'm fine."

Derek hesitated for half a second before nodding.

"Alright," he said. Then, softer, to Meredith, "I'll see you later."

She gave a small nod before sliding into her car, closing the door.

Jamie and Derek watched as she drove off before Jamie gestured toward the street. "Come on, let's go before I change my mind."

Derek huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, wouldn't want that."

They started walking.

Jamie didn't say anything right away. Derek didn't either.

It wasn't an uncomfortable silence.

Just… quiet.

The bar wasn't far. The air was cool but not cold. Seattle smelled like rain even though it hadn't rained yet.

Jamie exhaled slowly.

A drink. A distraction. That's what he needed.

-------------------------------

The bar was loud but familiar. The kind of background noise that filled the space without demanding attention.

Jamie and Derek took seats at the bar, shoulders loose from exhaustion but minds still spinning.

Joe walked up, towel over his shoulder. "What can I bring you guys?"

Jamie tapped the bar lightly. "Tequila."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Bad day?"

Jamie shook his head once, but his expression said otherwise.

Joe didn't push. He reached under the counter, grabbing a bottle and two shot glasses.

Jamie poured. One for himself. One for Derek. Then—one for Joe.

Joe huffed a small laugh but took the glass. "Alright, now I know it's bad."

Jamie picked up his shot and spoke slowly.

"O'Malley's dad hasn't woken up yet."

Derek glanced up, frowning.

Jamie rolled the shot between his fingers before downing it in one go. "Stable for now. But still intubated. Trauma from the surgery was severe."

Joe nodded once, taking his own shot without a word.

Jamie poured again.

"George is staying the night. Checking kidney function." Another shot down. "And Webber's making me choose between trauma and cardio."

Derek leaned back slightly. "That was fast."

Jamie gestured vaguely. "Apparently, I'm the next Tapley."

Derek snorted. "That's… a lot."

Jamie just nodded and poured again.

"So Joe, leave the bottle."

Joe exhaled, but he didn't argue. He just set it down and walked away.

Jamie poured. Drank. Poured. Drank.

Derek kept up for three shots before stopping. He set his glass down, watching Jamie knock back another.

Then another.

And another.

By the time Jamie reached ten, he stood abruptly, pulling out a few bills and setting them on the bar.

Derek's brows furrowed. "You good?"

Jamie didn't answer. He just turned, heading for the exit.

Joe called after him. "Should I call you a cab?"

Jamie didn't slow down. "No need. I'm staying at the hospital tonight."

------------------------------

The hospital was quieter now, the evening shift settling in. The bright fluorescent lights hummed above Jamie as he walked steadily through the hallways.

His body was warm from the tequila, but his mind was sharp enough.

When he reached O'Malley's father's room, he slowed. The door was slightly ajar, the soft beeping of the monitors filling the space.

Jamie knocked once on the doorframe before stepping inside.

George was at his father's bedside, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the monitors.

He looked up at Jamie, his expression unreadable. "Hey."

Jamie nodded, stepping further in. "How's he doing?"

George exhaled. "Stable." His voice was careful, controlled.

Jamie gave a short nod. "Good."

He took a step closer—but that's when George's brow furrowed.

He sniffed once, then twice.

Then his gaze narrowed. "Have you been drinking?"

Jamie waved a hand dismissively, dropping into the chair by the bed. "Yeah. Today isn't a good day."

George just stared at him.

Jamie leaned his head back for a second before glancing at George again. "Get me a banana bag. I don't want to be hungover tomorrow."

George blinked. "You're serious?"

Jamie gestured vaguely. "Very."

For a second, George didn't move—just processed the fact that Jamie Knight, the most put-together surgeon he'd ever met, had walked back into the hospital slightly buzzed and was now asking for an IV like it was a casual favor.

"You don't mind if I stay the night, right?" Jamie added.

George just stared.

Then, finally—he blinked, snapped out of it, and mumbled, "Uh—yeah. I'll go grab the IV."

Jamie nodded, settling into the chair as George left the room.

As the door clicked shut, the room fell back into stillness.

The rhythmic beeping of the monitors, the faint hum of the ventilation system—it was too quiet.

Jamie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Yeah… not a good day."

The words were barely above a whisper.

Not meant for anyone to hear.

He exhaled slowly, leaning back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling for a moment.

The hospital felt different at this time of night. He knew this feeling well.

A long shift. An empty chair. A patient still unconscious.

It felt like Iraq.

It felt like New York.

It felt like every long night spent waiting to see if someone made it through.

Jamie closed his eyes for a second, but he didn't sleep.

He just waited.

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