Sweet and Sour
Fine China and Broken Glass
The smell of browned butter and toasted pecans drifted out of the intern locker room, battling valiantly against the hospital’s eternal undertone of bleach and industrial floor wax.
Izzie Stevens leaned against the bench, carefully sliding a wax-paper collar around the neck of a glass mason jar. Inside sat layers of warm peach compote, spiced streusel, and mascarpone cream she had whipped by hand at four in the morning before her shift. It was absurd to bake after barely four hours of sleep, but kneading dough or stirring custard was the only thing that kept her hands from shaking when the anxiety climbed too high into her throat.
"You're going to get crumbs in the chest tubes," George O'Malley mumbled around a mouthful of pastry, sitting cross-legged on the floor by his locker with a paper napkin spread across his knees. "I mean, this is incredible, Izzie. Really. If you ever quit surgery, you could open a bakery and retire by forty. But if Bailey catches you running a patisserie in here, she’ll make us clean bedpans with toothbrushes."
"Bailey is in trauma bay two until nine," Izzie said, tying a neat, pale green ribbon around the jar. Her fingers were steady now, though her stomach felt like a knot of tangled twine. "And it’s not for the floor. It’s... it’s for Preston."
George choked. He coughed, thumping his own chest frantically until he could swallow the mouthful of streusel. "Preston? As in... Dr. Preston Burke? You’re calling the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery by his first name?"
Izzie felt a flush creeping from the collar of her scrub top all the way to her hairline. "He asked me to. Last night. Over dessert."
"Over dessert," George repeated, his eyes saucer-wide. He scrambled up from the floor, brushing sugar off his thighs, his face a mix of terror and awe. "Izzie, you actually went to Il Terrazzo with him? Meredith said you did, but I thought maybe you just sat in the car or got takeout. That place has a dress code. Like, an actual sign that says *jackets required*."
"I wore my black dress," Izzie whispered, dropping her chin. "The simple one with the cap sleeves. The one I bought on clearance at Nordstrom Rack three years ago."
"And?" George pressed, leaning in closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. "Did he... did he try anything? Was it weird? Tell me it wasn't weird. If Burke is weird, the whole universe is broken."
"It wasn't weird at all," Izzie said, and the breathless wonder in her voice surprised even herself. "George, he was... he was a complete gentleman. He showed up at my front porch at seven-fifty-five. Not eight. Five minutes early. He got out of his car—a clean, beautiful sedan that smells like cedar and polished leather—and he walked up the steps, knocked, and waited. He didn't honk the horn. He didn't text me from the curb like every guy I’ve ever known."
She touched her collarbone, where the ghost of a cool autumn breeze still lingered in her memory.
"He opened the car door for me," she murmured. "He waited until I was completely inside before he closed it gently. When we got to the restaurant, the maître d' knew his name. They had a table reserved in the corner, by this gorgeous arched window overlooking the bay. And he... he pulled out my chair, George. He put the linen napkin on my lap before he sat down."
George stared at her, blinking behind his glasses. "A napkin? Men actually do that?"
"He does," Izzie said softly, her eyes shining with something bright and desperately fragile. "He asked me what kind of wine I liked. And when I told him I didn't know much about wine, that my mom only ever bought the jugs with the screw caps from the gas station, he didn't laugh. He didn't even raise an eyebrow. He just called the sommelier over and said, 'We would like something bright and clean, perhaps an Arneis from Piedmont, to complement Dr. Stevens’s palate.'"
She let out a shaky, half-strangled laugh, looking down at the mason jar between her hands.
"George, I didn't even know what fork to use for the salad. There were three of them. Three forks, all lined up like tiny silver pitchforks, and I just froze. I felt like I was back in Chehalis, standing in my muddy sneakers in front of a double-wide, pretending I belonged somewhere with chandeliers."
"Izzie," George said gently, his expression softening into pure warmth. "You graduated top of your class. You survived medical school on your own dime. You belong wherever you want to belong."
"You don't understand," she whispered, her voice cracking just enough to show the hollow fear beneath the surface. "He asked me about my favorite composers. He listens to Bach while he repairs mitral valves, George! He talks about architecture. He speaks Italian to the waiter! And the whole time, I was sitting there terrified that if I chewed too loudly, or if I said the wrong word, he was going to see straight through me. He’s going to realize I’m just trailer trash in a department store discount dress, pretending to be a surgeon."
"He doesn't think that," George insisted, reaching out to pat her forearm clumsily. "Burke isn't stupid. In fact, he’s probably the smartest guy in this entire building. If he spent three hours talking to you, it’s because he likes you. He likes *you*, Izzie. Not some snobby socialite."
"I'm terrified I'm going to mess it up," she admitted, the words spilling out like blood from a fresh cut. "I’ve never dated anyone like him. Every guy I ever went out with in high school or college drove a truck with a cracked windshield, wanted to fool around in the backseat behind a gravel pit, and smelled like stale beer and motor oil. I know how to handle guys like that. You keep your guard up, you don't expect anything, and you don't get hurt when they turn out to be cowards."
She looked toward the closed locker room door, her jaw setting with that stubborn, hard-won resolve that lived deep in her bones.
"Burke doesn't treat me like an object. When he walked me to the porch last night, he didn't push for anything. He took my hand, lifted it, and kissed the back of my fingers. Just... right there, against my skin. He looked me in the eye and said, 'Thank you for an exceptional evening, Isobel. Rest well.' And then he walked down the steps, got in his car, and drove away."
George blew out a long breath. "Okay. That is... terrifyingly classy. That’s like black-and-white movie classy."
"It’s terrifying because it means the bar is so high," Izzie said, clutching the jar of compote against her chest. "If I drop the ball, I don't just lose a date. I lose the first man who ever looked at me like I was something worth respecting."
Before George could reply, the locker room door swung inward with a violent, metallic shudder.
Alex Karev stalked in, his shoulders hunched, carrying the sour, thunderous energy of a lightning storm. His hair was damp and uncombed, his scrub shirt wrinkled, and dark shadows were carved like bruises beneath his eyes. He stopped dead the moment he saw Izzie.
The silence that fell between them was sudden, jagged, and cold enough to cut glass.
Alex’s gaze flicked from Izzie’s face down to the glass jar with the ribbon, then to George, who immediately stiffened into defensive vigilance. Alex looked like he hadn't slept a wink. His jaw was clenched so tight the tendons stood out against his pale neck, and there was a raw, restless misery humming off him that he tried desperately to bury under a mask of sneering indifference.
"Look at this," Alex rasped, his voice rough from exhaustion and cigarettes he’d smoked behind the ambulance bay. "The domestic goddess is back at her station. What’s that, Stevens? Bribe for the attendings so they forget you spent college posing in your underwear?"
George stepped forward, his fists balling at his sides. "Shut up, Alex. Just shut your mouth."
"Back off, O’Malley," Alex snapped, though his eyes never left Izzie.
He was waiting for it. Alex stood there, braced on the balls of his feet, waiting for her chin to quiver, waiting for the tears to well up in her eyes like they had yesterday morning. He wanted her to cry, because if she cried, she was weak, and if she was weak, it meant he hadn't completely ruined himself in her eyes. It meant she was still the scared trailer girl he understood.
Instead, Izzie didn't flinch.
She set the jar down on the wooden bench with slow, measured precision. She smoothed the front of her clean blue scrub top. Then, she took two steps toward him, stopping close enough that Alex could smell the sweet, warm vanilla clinging to her skin.
She tilted her head back, meeting his furious, bloodshot eyes with a calm, freezing clarity that hit him harder than a right hook to the jaw.
"You think you have power over me, Alex?" Izzie asked. Her voice wasn't raised. It was low, steady, and entirely devoid of fear. "You think because you hung those pictures up, you proved something about who I am?"
Alex shifted his weight, his mouth twisting into an ugly, defensive line. "I was just—"
"You're a coward," she said simply.
The word dropped into the small room like an anvil.
Alex flinched, his eyes narrowing violently. "Watch it, Stevens."
"No, I won't watch it," Izzie said, stepping closer still, her blue eyes piercing right through the armor he spent twenty-four hours a day building. "You’re miserable, Alex. You grew up in the dirt just like I did, but instead of trying to climb out and build something decent, you just want to drag everybody else down into the mud with you so you don't feel so alone. You thought showing everyone my body would break me? It didn't. I survived that catalog shoot, I survived medical school, and I will survive you."
Alex felt his throat tighten. The air in his lungs turned to ash.
"I don't hate you," Izzie continued, and the utter lack of malice in her tone was the cruelest part of all. "I feel sorry for you. Because when Dr. Burke walked into this room yesterday, he looked at me and saw a physician. He saw a person. And all you could see was your own disgusting, bitter jealousy."
"I’m not jealous of Burke," Alex snarled, his voice cracking on the edge of a shout. "You think he’s some saint? He’s an attending playing with an intern! He’s old-money garbage who thinks he can buy a blonde trophy with some fancy pasta!"
"Dr. Burke has more character in his surgical scrub cap than you will ever have in your entire body," Izzie said coldly. She picked up her jar from the bench, tucked it into the crook of her arm, and looked Alex up and down with devastating dismissal. "Now get out of my way, Karev. I have morning rounds, and unlike you, I don't have to spend my shift doing rectals in the basement."
She brushed past his shoulder, not waiting for a response. The door swung shut behind her with a dull, heavy click.
George lingered for half a second, shooting Alex a look of profound disgust, before hurrying out after her.
Alex stood frozen in the center of the locker room.
The silence rushed back in, suffocating and thick. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The blood roared in his ears, hot and poisonous.
*Coward.*
The word echoed in the empty room. His father’s slurred voice, his brother’s screams, the cracked linoleum of his childhood kitchen—it all smashed against his skull at once. He slammed his fist into the row of gray lockers.
*BANG.*
The metal caved slightly under the impact, the sharp pain shooting up his knuckles into his wrist. He didn't care. He welcomed it. The physical sting was clean, whereas the rot in his chest felt putrid and deep.
He was angry. God, he was so angry he could have torn the sinks off the wall with his bare hands. But worse than the anger was the sickening, leaden weight of guilt pooling at the bottom of his stomach.
She had looked right through him. She hadn't screamed. She hadn't begged him to understand. She had simply dismissed him like trash on the side of the road, and the worst part was... she was right. He had acted like a feral animal because he couldn't stand the thought that someone from the same dirt as him could carry herself with so much light.
And now, she was carrying that light straight to Preston Burke.
Alex leaned his forehead against the cold, dented locker, breathing heavily through his teeth, his hand throbbing.
"If you break your metacarpals, you won't be able to hold a retractor," a cool, dry voice noted from the doorway. "And Bailey will probably throw you into an incinerator."
Alex whipped around, his teeth bared, ready to take a chunk out of whoever was standing there.
Cristina Yang was leaning against the doorframe, sipping dark coffee from a paper cup with Seattle Grace’s logo smudged along the rim. Her scrubs were crisp, her hair pulled back in its usual efficient tangle of dark curls, and her expression was entirely neutral, observing his meltdown with the mild curiosity of a scientist watching bacteria divide under a microscope.
"Get lost, Yang," Alex growled, turning away to cradle his bruised hand against his chest. "I’m not in the mood."
"Clearly," Cristina said, letting the door fall shut behind her. She pushed the lock into place with the heel of her sneaker. The deadbolt gave a distinct, satisfying *clunk*.
Alex stiffened. He turned back, his eyes narrowing warily. "What are you doing?"
"Closing the door," Cristina replied simply, setting her coffee cup down on the bench right next to the dent Alex had just made in the locker. She crossed her arms, her dark eyes pinning him where he stood. "You look pathetic, Karev. Seriously. Moping around like a kicked dog because Stevens gave you a dressing-down?"
"She didn't give me a damn thing," Alex barked, his temper flaring again. "She’s a pretentious, hypocritical—"
"Save it," Cristina cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand. "I don't care about your little psychological drama with Izzie. I don't care about her trailer, I don't care about Burke’s silver forks, and I definitely don't care about your bruised ego."
"Then what the hell are you doing in here?" Alex demanded, taking a menacing step toward her. He was six feet of raw, unchanneled rage, his chest heaving, his jaw set in a savage grimace. "Come to kick me while I’m down like everybody else?"
Cristina didn't move an inch. In fact, her mouth curled into a razor-sharp, insolent little smirk that made the hair on the back of Alex’s neck stand up.
"I don't kick," she said, her voice dropping into a low, smoky register that was entirely devoid of sympathy and dripping with challenge. "I use my time efficiently. And right now, I have forty-five minutes before Burke’s triple-bypass pre-op, my paging pager hasn't buzzed in ten minutes, and you are vibrating like an unexploded grenade."
Alex’s breath hitched.
The anger in his veins suddenly crossed wires with the searing, unfiltered memory of yesterday afternoon—the rough scrape of her hands in his hair, the metallic taste of adrenaline, the desperate, unthinking friction against the concrete wall of the supply closet.
"You're out of your mind, Yang," he rasped, though his feet remained planted, his gaze dropping to the curve of her throat.
"Probably," Cristina said without missing a beat.
Her pager gave a quiet, muffled *chirp* at her waist. She pulled it out with one hand, glanced at the green screen, and snorted.
"What is it?" Alex asked, his voice rough.
"My brother," she muttered, sliding the pager back into her pocket without replying. "Texting me from his private car on the way to Wall Street to tell me he just closed an eight-figure leveraged buyout and asking if I’ve saved any lives yet or if I’m still 'playing with blood.' Annoying, arrogant, completely insufferable."
Alex blinked, momentarily thrown off balance. "Your brother?"
"Twin brother. Chris," Cristina said dismissively, taking a deliberate step into Alex’s personal space. Her dark eyes locked onto his, intense and unblinking. "He’s in New York buying companies, sleeping with supermodels, and acting like he owns the planet. I’m in Seattle cutting people open. Neither of us has time for emotional hand-wringing, Karev. Which brings me back to you."
She reached out. Her fingers were cold against the fever-warm skin of his throat, her palm sliding flat against the side of his neck, feeling the heavy, erratic thrum of his pulse.
Alex’s breath caught in his chest. Every muscle in his body coiled tight as a spring.
"You're full of poison," Cristina murmured, her voice steady, clinical, yet searingly intimate. "You feel like dirt because Stevens looked at you like you're nothing, and Burke treated you like a child. You want to hit something. You want to burn something down."
"Shut up," he breathed, but his hand moved entirely on its own, his bruised fingers wrapping around her hip, digging into the cotton of her scrubs.
"Make me," Cristina whispered.
That was all it took. The dam broke.
Alex didn't think; he reacted. He seized the front of her scrub top with both fists and shoved her backward, slamming her back against the row of metal lockers with a hollow, booming *CRASH*.
Cristina didn't cry out; she gasped, her hands immediately latching onto the collar of his shirt, dragging him down into her space. When his mouth crashed into hers, it wasn't a kiss—it was a collision. It was teeth, heat, and raw, feral hunger, completely stripped of gentleness.
Alex tasted coffee and sharp, unapologetic desire. He kissed her like a man drowning, desperate to obliterate the sound of Izzie’s voice, desperate to drown out the lingering shame of Burke’s aristocratic disappointment. He wanted to feel real. He wanted to feel coarse, dirty, and alive.
Cristina met every ounce of his violence with an aggressive, predatory rhythm of her own. Her nails dug through the thin cotton of his scrubs, biting into the muscle of his shoulder, anchoring him to her. She hooked one leg around his hip, hauling his weight flush against her, letting out a low, ragged groan against his lips as the heavy friction hit home.
"Harder, Karev," she commanded against his mouth, breathless, her voice tight with strain and fierce, unvarnished pleasure. "Don't think. Just move."
"You talk too damn much," Alex growled into her jaw, his lips dragging down the pale, sweat-slick skin of her throat.
He gripped her under the thighs, hoisting her up until she was sitting on the wooden bench, her back braced against the dented lockers. His fingers were rough, frantic, tearing at the drawstring of her pants, shoving the fabric down just enough to clear the path. His own scrub pants hit the floor with a muted rustle.
When he pushed inside her, it was swift, deep, and completely unforgiving.
Cristina’s head dropped back against the metal with a dull *thud*, her eyes rolling shut as a sharp, fractured breath tore from her throat. Her hands gripped his forearms, her knuckles turning bone-white, her fingernails leaving red, half-moon crescents in his skin.
"Yeah," she hissed, her hips lifting instinctively to meet his furious, pounding rhythm. "Right there. God, Alex..."
He didn't answer. He couldn't. His vision was tunneling into the heat between them, the sharp scent of sex and scrub soap, the frantic slide of skin on skin. He drove into her with a desperate, punishing momentum, his forehead resting against the curve of her shoulder, his teeth scraping the collar of her scrub shirt to keep from shouting.
There was no romance here. There were no imported truffles, no Italian wine, no antique silver forks, and no promises whispered on moonlit porches.
There was only this: two exhausted, ambitious predators tearing pieces out of each other in a locked locker room, using each other’s bodies to bleed off the pressure before the hospital crushed them whole.
Cristina’s breath came in ragged, jagged gasps, her heels digging hard into the small of his back, urging him deeper, faster, matching his ferocious pace with an unyielding demand of her own. "Don't... don't you dare stop..."
"Not stopping," Alex rasped, his hips slamming forward, his hand sliding up to grip the back of her neck, holding her steady against the onslaught.
He looked down at her. Her dark eyes were cracked open, glazed with a fierce, blinding focus, staring straight back into his. In that moment, there was no pity in Cristina Yang. There was no judgment. She didn't want him to be better than he was. She didn't want him to be noble, or kind, or clean. She wanted the savage, feral boy from the gutter, because that was the only part of him that could burn at the same terrifying temperature she did.
The heat coiled violently in his gut, snapping tight like an overstretched cable.
Cristina let out a muffled, shuddering cry into his neck, her entire body locking up, the inner walls of her muscles clamping down on him in a fierce, rhythmic pulse that pushed him entirely over the edge. Alex groaned—a deep, torn sound pulled from the very bottom of his chest—and drove into her one last, brutal time, spilling over into the dark heat of her as his knees nearly buckled.
For three long, agonizing seconds, the universe narrowed to the sound of their ragged, synchronized breathing and the heavy, metallic smell of the room.
Alex stayed buried inside her, his chest heaving against hers, his forehead resting against her damp collarbone. His heart was hammering so violently he could feel it in his teeth.
Slowly, the world came creeping back in.
The fluorescent light hummed overhead. The linoleum floor was cold against his bare ankles. The locker room smelled of vanilla and pecans, mixed now with the unmistakable, musk-heavy tang of sweat and adrenaline.
Cristina exhaled a long, shuddering breath, her fingers slowly uncurling from the back of his neck.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice rough, hoarse, but completely clear.
Alex blinked, slowly pulling back. His muscles felt like lead, the knot of poisonous anger in his chest finally dissolved, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion. He looked at her, his expression unreadable, guarded once more.
Cristina didn't look flustered. Her hair was a wild, glorious catastrophe, her lips were swollen and red, and a bright red scratch marked the side of her neck, but her eyes were already sharp again, the fog of pleasure clearing away with terrifying, surgical efficiency.
She shoved him back by the shoulders, sliding off the bench, her feet hitting the floor with a light slap.
"Pants, Karev," she said, her voice brisk as she yanked her own scrubs up, knotting the drawstring with quick, practiced fingers. "Burke’s pre-op is in twenty minutes. If I’m late, he’ll give the second-assist to an intern from third floor, and I will literally have to kill you."
Alex pulled his scrub pants up, fastening the waist, watching her in absolute disbelief. "That’s it? 'Pants, Karev'?"
Cristina picked up her white coat from the bench, shaking it out with a crisp snap. She slid her arms into the sleeves, buttoning the front with clinical detachment.
"What were you expecting? Cuddling?" She scoffed, checking her reflection in the small mirror mounted above the sink and smoothing down a stray curl with a damp palm. "We did what we needed to do. You’re not trying to punch a hole in the wall anymore, and my tension headache is gone. It was a successful intervention."
Alex stood there, his hands resting on his hips, a dry, bitter, entirely genuine chuckle breaking from his chest. "You are completely unhinged, Yang."
"I am efficient," she corrected, picking up her coffee cup and taking a swallow, entirely unbothered that it was cold. "And you’re welcome, by the way. You looked like you were about to cry over Stevens's little speech."
Alex’s smile vanished, the ghost of the sting returning, though duller now, blunted by the heavy ache in his limbs. "I don't cry."
"Good," Cristina said, walking toward the door. She unlocked the deadbolt with a quick flick of her wrist. Before she opened it, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder, her dark eyes glittering with wicked amusement. "By the way, if you ever tell anyone about this, I will tell Bailey you steal morphine from the trauma cart, and then I will remove your appendix with a rusty butter knife."
"Fair enough," Alex muttered, shaking his head.
Cristina slipped out into the bright, busy hallway, letting the door click shut behind her.
Alex stood in the quiet for another minute. He looked down at his bruised knuckles, then at the dented locker. The world was still messy. He was still a screw-up from the wrong side of the tracks, stuck in the clinic for the rest of the week, hated by half the hospital staff. But the suffocating panic that had gripped his throat since yesterday morning had retreated into the shadows.
He washed his face at the sink with icy water, scrubbed his hands until they were clean, and stepped out into the light.
***
Up on the fourth floor, the cardiothoracic wing was an entirely different universe.
Here, the floors were carpeted with dense, noise-muffling gray wool. The lighting was softer, indirect, designed to soothe wealthy donors and delicate cardiac patients. The air smelled of expensive floor wax, paper charts, and the faint, bitter aroma of dark-roast espresso.
Preston Burke stood at the central nurses' station, reviewing an echocardiogram printout clipped to a brushed-steel board. His posture was military-straight, his white coat immaculate, not a single wrinkle marring the fabric.
"Dr. Burke?"
Burke turned smoothly, lowering the chart.
Izzie was standing three feet away, holding the glass mason jar tied with the green ribbon. She looked scrubbed clean, her blonde hair woven into a neat, practical braid that rested over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed with a soft, nervous warmth.
Burke’s stern, focused expression shifted instantly, a subtle warmth breaking across his sculpted features like sun breaking through morning fog.
"Isobel," he said, his baritone voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register that made the passing nurses immediately pretend they weren't listening. "Good morning."
"Good morning, Dr. Burke," she said, catching herself, and then correcting softly: "Preston."
The corner of his mouth curved into an approving smile. "You look rested. I was concerned your early shift might prove overly taxing after our late dinner."
"No, I... I felt wonderful, actually," Izzie said, stepping closer, holding out the jar with both hands. "I made this for you. Peach compote, with spiced streusel and mascarpone. I know you usually prefer savory in the morning, but... well, I thought with the aneurysm surgery today, you might need the sugar."
Burke looked down at the jar. He reached out, his long, surgeon’s fingers brushing lightly against hers as he took it. He didn't just take it and set it down; he held it up to the light, admiring the neat layers, the pristine wax paper, the handcrafted ribbon.
"Peaches from the market?" he asked quietly.
"From the organic stand on Pike Place," Izzie admitted, biting her lip. "I boiled the syrup with a little cinnamon and vanilla bean."
"Isobel," Burke said, his eyes meeting hers with profound, unwavering sincerity. "This is an extraordinary gesture. You woke up early, after a grueling night, to create something exceptional for me."
Izzie felt the knot of anxiety that had lived in her chest all morning finally dissolve into pure, unadulterated relief. "You liked it? I mean, you haven't tasted it yet, but—"
"I am certain it is exquisite," Burke interrupted gently. He set the jar down on the desk with deliberate care, treating it like fine porcelain. "Because it comes from you."
He looked at her for a long, quiet moment, entirely unbothered by the fact that they were standing in the middle of a hospital corridor.
"I was wondering," Burke continued smoothly, "if you are free on Friday evening. The Seattle Symphony is performing Beethoven’s Ninth at Benaroya Hall. I have a box on the second tier. I would be deeply honored if you would accompany me."
Izzie’s breath caught in her throat.
*The symphony. A box.*
Her mother had never even set foot inside a theater; the closest thing to high culture in the Stevens household was the local community pageant held in the high school gymnasium. The old panic flared for a fraction of a second—what would she wear? What if she didn't understand the music? What if someone recognized her from the magazine and pointed her out in a crowd of philanthropists?
Then she looked at Preston Burke’s eyes.
There was no judgment there. No mockery. Only a quiet, unshakable strength offering her a hand up into a world where she wasn't just surviving—she was celebrated.
"I would love that, Preston," Izzie whispered, a radiant, brilliant smile spreading across her face. "I would really love that."
"Splendid," Burke replied, dipping his head in a courteous, old-fashioned bow. "I will arrange the car for seven. Now, Dr. Stevens... let us go review the images for the aneurysm. I want you first-assist on the retraction."
Izzie’s heart leaped. "First-assist?"
"You earned it, Isobel," Burke said firmly, turning to lead the way down the hall. "Now walk with me."
***
Across the hall, emerging from the stairwell with a stack of surgical charts under her arm, Cristina stopped dead in her tracks.
She watched them.
Burke walked with measured, aristocratic steps, keeping pace with Izzie, his hands clasped behind his back, listening intently as Izzie gestured with animated enthusiasm, her braid swinging over her shoulder. Burke looked like an eighteenth-century duke promenading with his future duchess through the gardens of Versailles.
Cristina rolled her eyes so hard she nearly dropped her charts.
"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath. "A box at the symphony. He’s going to buy her a tea set next. Or a horse."
Her pager buzzed again.
Cristina fished it out of her pocket, clicking the display. It was another external message, sent via satellite relay from a trading desk on Wall Street.
*Closed the buyout. 14 million on the spread. Celebrating at Le Bernardin tonight with two hedge fund analysts who look like Swedish tennis players. Tell me you’re not still smelling like formaldehyde, twin. Buy yourself something ridiculous and send me the bill. Love, Chris.*
Cristina stared at the screen for three long seconds.
A sharp, familiar smirk touched her lips.
Chris was running Manhattan like a private playground, drowning in caviar, champagne, and shameless luxury, while she was here in gray Seattle, having furious, rough, ten-minute quickies against dented metal lockers with a broken-knuckled intern who had mud on his boots.
She tapped out a reply with one thumb: *Le Bernardin is for amateurs. And keep your money, Christopher. I just had the most efficient procedure of my career, and it didn't cost a dime.*
She slipped the pager into her coat, squared her shoulders, and marched toward the OR gallery, ready to cut open a human heart and take exactly what she wanted from the world.