23. L&L and E&N
The patient was wheeled in, blood-stained bandages wrapping a leg that looked… wrong. Twisted at an angle it shouldn’t bend. The monitors beeped in a frantic rhythm as the nurses rushed to stabilize him.
Dr. Lucas was already at the bedside, tall frame hunched over the mangled limb, his jaw tightening as he palpated gently. The residents stood clustered behind him like a nervous flock, notebooks half-open, pens ready.
Dr. Lucas (grimly): “Compound fracture of the femur. Severe crush injury. We’re looking at external fixation at the very least. He’s lucky to even have pulses still. If we delay… he’ll lose the leg.”
A murmur rippled among the residents. Eyes widened, hands clutched pens tighter. This wasn’t a textbook paragraph—they were staring at it.
Dr. Lucas straightened, peeled off his gloves, and looked at the eager circle of faces. His voice was calm, steady, but carried that commanding weight.
Dr. Lucas: “We’re taking him to OT now. This isn’t a simple fix. We’ll be navigating vessels, soft tissue, bone fragments… There will be no room for mistakes.”
His gaze swept over them. “So—who wants to scrub in?”
Almost every hand shot up. Some too eagerly, some half-shaking with nervousness, but all desperate for a chance.
Lucas raised a brow. He let the silence hang, scanning the group. Then his eyes stopped on one face.
Dr. Lucas (with a small smirk): “Lexi. You’re with me.”
A collective groan-sigh-whisper of “Of course she gets picked” rustled through the group.
One resident muttered under his breath: “Why her? I’ve assisted twice already…”
But Lucas didn’t flinch.
Dr. Lucas (pointing at Lexi, voice firm): “Because she noticed the absent dorsalis pedis pulse before I even mentioned it. Everyone else was staring at the fracture. She was thinking about the limb’s circulation. That’s the difference between saving a leg and amputating it.”
The residents quieted instantly. Some impressed, some grudgingly envious.
Lexi blinked, caught between pride and pressure. She tied her hair tighter, masking her nerves ready for the long surgery.
Dr. Lucas (clapping once): “Alright, enough gawking. Prep the patient. Lexi—scrub in. Let’s save his leg.”
And just like that, Lexi stepped forward, heart pounding, while the others watched with a mix of envy and respect.
The bright lights flooded the sterile room. Monitors beeped steady now, the patient anesthetized and draped. The mangled leg rested on the table, grotesque yet clinical under the surgical green sheets.
Lexi stood beside Dr. Lucas, gloved and gowned, her face hidden behind the mask but her eyes sharp. This wasn’t just watch and learn anymore—this was real. Her first real scrub with Lucas.
He glanced at her only once before looking down at the incision site.
Dr. Lucas (calm, steady): “Scalpel.”
The nurse placed it in his hand. He made the first cut, precise, controlled. Blood welled, suction hissed. Lexi swallowed, forcing her hand to remain steady as she held the retractor.
Dr. Lucas (low voice, without looking up): “Relax your grip. You’re strangling the instrument.”
Lexi adjusted immediately.
Lexi (whispering through mask): “Sorry, sir.”
Dr. Lucas: “No sorrys in here. Just corrections.”
His tone wasn’t harsh—it was flat, clinical—but it steadied her. She focused. The room shrank to just the two of them, the leg, and the instruments.
Minutes passed in tense silence, interrupted only by suction sounds and the nurse calling out instruments. Then—
Dr. Lucas: “Retract a little wider. Good. Hold it—don’t move. You’ve just cleared my line of sight to the femoral artery.”
Her heart nearly skipped. She did that right.
They worked in synchrony—Lucas dissecting, Lexi retracting, suctioning on his cue. Sweat beaded at her hairline, but her hands stayed firm.
Suddenly, a gush of blood spurted.
Nurse: “Sir, bleeding!”
Lexi froze for a fraction of a second.
Dr. Lucas (snapping, sharp): “Suction! Now!”
She jolted into action, grabbing the suction, guiding it exactly where he needed. He clamped down on the vessel, the bleeding stemmed. Silence again, except for the monitors.
Lucas didn’t look up, but his voice dropped quieter this time.
Dr. Lucas: “Good recovery. You hesitated, but you moved fast. That’s what matters.”
Lexi exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath. Her eyes flicked toward him, but he was already back in focus, as if nothing happened.
Two hours later, the fixation was in place, the worst under control.
Dr. Lucas (removing gloves, finally meeting her eyes): “You did well. You learned something today, didn’t you?”
Lexi (mask hiding her grin): “Not to strangle the instruments?”
Lucas chuckled, just once—short and rare.
Dr. Lucas: “That, and that saving a limb is teamwork. You keep showing me you think beyond the obvious, you’ll get more than one chance to scrub in.”
Lexi’s chest swelled with a mix of relief and pride. As the nurses wheeled the patient out, she realized—he wasn’t just testing her. He was teaching her.
And everyone outside would know she’d earned her place at that table.
Finally after the long run.Hospital hours were done.Neil was back home.
Neil shut the balcony door behind him and stared at the mess. Pots still wrapped in plastic, soil spilling across the tiles, little plants leaning helplessly as if begging for rescue.
“God, Walter,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Are you planning to open a jungle here?”
It wasn’t his job. It wasn’t his concern. She bought them, she should arrange them. He turned to walk away, but his eyes caught one tiny succulent fallen sideways, its soil scattered, like it wouldn’t survive the night if ignored.
He crouched down slowly. Picked it up. Adjusted the soil back into place.
And that was how Dr. Neil Morris, top cardiothoracic surgeon, found himself… gardening.
He rolled back his sleeves and started moving the heavy pots to the corners. At one point, he had soil on his cheek, dirt under his fingernails, and sweat on his forehead. But oddly enough, he didn’t hate it.
Every time he lifted a plant into place, he imagined her reaction: She’ll probably pout… scold me for doing it wrong… or worse, smile like I actually did something nice. Ugh. Ridiculous.
He shook his head, trying to convince himself he didn’t care. But the truth was, he did.
An hour later, the balcony looked transformed. Rows of fresh green lined the railing, hanging pots swung gently, and a small corner turned into what could almost be called a “cozy mini garden.”
Neil dusted his hands, stepping back to admire it with a very un-Neil-like satisfaction.
That’s when he heard the sound of the door clicking.
Eva walked in, clearly tired from her long day, shoulders slumped. She froze at the sight of him standing in the middle of the balcony—sleeves rolled, hair messy, dirt on his face, surrounded by plants.
Her eyes widened. “You…? You did this?”
Neil straightened immediately, brushing off his hands as if it were nothing. “They were in the way. Someone had to put them properly. Don’t get the wrong idea, Walter.”
She walked closer, looking at the neatly arranged plants with awe. “This is… this is beautiful. I almost forgot about my babies”
“Babies?” Neil scoffed. “And when are you planning to take them out of those.” His finger pointing towards the pastic bags covered with soil.
"I was in a hurry to come home to arrange them.But I didn't get a taxi on time so I am late now."
He turned fixing the last plant and listening to her.
Eva turned to him with that soft smile—the kind that always disarmed him more than he’d admit. “… thank you.”
Neil looked away instantly, pretending to check the position of a fern. “You’re welcome doesn’t suit me.”
Eva giggled softly, covering her mouth. “Well then, good job, gardener Morris.”
That title made him whip his head toward her with a glare, but she was already walking past him, gently touching the leaves of the plants he had arranged.
And in that moment, though he’d never admit it aloud, Neil felt… calm.After the heated hospital moment, he knew what she felt at that point but it feels more lighter now.
And in that moment, though he’d never admit it aloud, Neil felt…
calm. His hands were dirty with soil, sweat clung to his forehead, but something about arranging those little pots made the emptiness of the walls shrink away.
After the heated hospital moment, he knew what she must have felt—cornered, belittled.
The guilt still lingered, but here, with the plants, it felt…
lighter. As if, for once, he wasn’t Dr. Morris commanding a ward, but just a man, trying to make space for someone else’s sunshine.
For a second, silence hung between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It was… lighter, warmer—like the balcony itself now.
Eva broke it first, eyes softening despite herself. “They look good.”
Neil: "Me?"
Eva: "The plants!"
Neil’s jaw ticked slightly, almost like he didn’t know what to do with the compliment.
Eva: “…So do you, when you’re not talking.”
His eyes widened.
She quickly turned back hiding her smile.
Eva came back out after washing her hands, holding a glass of water. She stood at the edge of the balcony, arms crossed, scanning the plants like she was a judge at some botany contest.
“Hm.”
Neil, crouched over a pot, didn’t look up. “What?” sitting on the living room sofa.
“That one’s crooked.” She pointed at a medium-sized pot near the corner. “It looks like it’s drunk.”
Neil straightened and followed her gaze. “It’s not crooked. It’s called… creative placement.”
Eva sipped her water, unimpressed. “Creative placement? The poor thing looks like it’s trying to run away.”
Eva walked over and nudged the pot an inch to the right. “There. Balanced. Don’t worry, I just saved your ‘design vision.’”
Neil stared at her, then at the plant, then back at her. “…You know you just moved it exactly where I was about to put it.”
Eva beamed. “So basically, I’m the best”
Neil scoffed. “Please. I’ve been arranging these for two hours.”
“And yet,” she said sweetly, “I fixed it in two seconds.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then shut it, exhaling through his nose. “I’m never gardening again.”
“Good,” she chirped, patting his shoulder.
Eva squinted at the row of plants again. “Look.That one’s leaning left.”
Neil, who was adjusting the soil, froze mid-scoop. “It’s not leaning. It’s artistically angled.”
He was definitely sulking.
Eva walked over, hands on her hips. “Neil, it looks like it’s waiting for public transport.”
He blinked at her. “You do realize you’re insulting my gardening skills, right? I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon. I stitch up hearts. I can handle a plant.”
Eva bit back a grin. “Clearly not this one.” She gently rotated the pot half an inch. “Now perfect.”
"Fine"
Neil finally pushed himself off the garden with a quiet sigh.
The cool evening air had done little to wash away the fatigue clinging to his muscles, or the faint scent of antiseptic that seemed to follow him everywhere.And now the soil all over his clothes, hands and his face.
He needed to clean up, clear his head, rinse the day off his skin.
Without another word, he disappeared inside, heading for his room. The sound of the shower soon filled the silence, and the garden was left with nothing but the rustle of leaves and Eva’s soft footsteps as she lingered by the doorway.
An hour later, Neil reemerged. His hair was damp, shirt clinging just slightly to his shoulders, and there was a rare, unguarded ease in his posture—lighter than before, as if the water had stripped away not just the day’s grime but also a layer of his defenses.
But before he could settle into the quiet he expected, something else caught him off guard.
The air smelled… different. Warm. Comforting. Familiar, in a way that didn’t belong to this house.
Food.
He followed the trail, curiosity tugging at him, until he reached the kitchen—only to stop short in the doorway.
Eva was there.
Barefoot on the cool tiles, humming softly to herself, focused entirely on plating the meal she had made. She hadn’t noticed him yet, and Neil found himself standing still, silently observing.
And for the first time, he wasn’t just looking—he was admiring.
Her hair was loosely tied back, strands escaping in delicate curls around her face, catching the warm kitchen light and glinting like threads of bronze.
Her profile was soft yet defined—the delicate slope of her nose, the concentration knitting her brows, the way her lower lip caught between her teeth when she focused.
He’d seen her in the OR, fierce and steady, but here… here she was something else.
Her skin carried that sun-kissed warmth of her heritage, glowing naturally under the simple yellow kitchen light. She wasn’t wearing anything dramatic—just a plain, comfortable outfit—but on her, it looked like it had been designed for softness and ease.
And her hands—he realized he was staring at them.
Those same hands that could tie knots and hold clamps in surgery now moved with a domestic tenderness: sprinkling pepper, smoothing the edge of a plate, adjusting the balance of flavors with instinct.
He wondered how many times those hands had stitched, healed and steadied.
And now, here they are, ready to feed him.
Neil’s chest tightened in a way that startled him.
Eva was—beautiful. Not in the polished, magazine-cover sense. But in the real way. The way someone looked when they weren’t trying. When they were simply… themselves.
And God help him, he realized he liked it.
He cleared his throat lightly, before his thoughts gave him away. “Need help?”
She glanced up, smile tugging at her lips. “I’m almost done.”
She turned back to the food, focused again. But Neil couldn’t. For the first time, He wasn’t distracted by work, by family, by the weight of everything he carried.
But her.
As she set the last dish on the counter, Eva glanced at him, a little shy but sincere.
Eva: “Thank you… for the garden. It was sweet.”
He held her gaze, something unspoken flickering in his eyes before his lips tugged into the faintest smile.
Neil: “And thank you… for this.” He nodded toward the food. “It smells amazing.”
Neil holding his fork ready to savour "So it's a Thank you dinner"
Eva nodding with her sunshine smile.
The Morris estate was alive again—not with warmth, but with shadows moving under the grand chandeliers. Papers spread across the long oak table, phones buzzing, low voices whispering strategies like it was a war council.
At the head sat Mr. Morris. His eyes were sharp, cold, calculating as ever. Every order he gave was followed instantly.
“Tomorrow,” he said at last, leaning back in his chair.