Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The city buzzed below her — a constant hum of life in motion. Neon lights bled into the evening sky, casting pink and violet reflections on glass buildings. Speeder horns blared in the distance, weaving through the tangled skyline like restless birds. Los Angeles never slept — not really. It just changed faces depending on the hour.

Rey Mirage sat in her car, unmoving, staring up at the familiar mirrored tower that loomed above her — Mirage Towers. Her home. At least that’s what the mailbox said. A luxury high-rise, too clean, too sterile, with gold accents in the lobby and a concierge who never smiled. The kind of place where everything looked expensive, but nothing felt lived in.

Her back ached from a long double shift, and the stiff navy-blue scrubs clung to her legs, sticky with sweat from the summer heat. Her hair was tied up messily, her skin oily, her brain fried from answering too many questions, injecting too many IVs, and smiling too much at nervous families trying to pretend their loved ones weren’t dying.

Tomorrow she’d be starting over — Organa Children’s Hospital. A brighter place, a respected name, better hours, better pay. A real pediatric cardiac unit. It was everything she’d worked toward since nursing school.

It should’ve felt like a win.

But nothing in her life felt like a win anymore.

With a sigh, she killed the engine and stepped out, the door closing with a muted thunk. Her keys jingled against her thigh as she crossed the wide, polished entryway, nodding at the security guard on duty — Sal, who gave her a tired wave. The marble lobby sparkled under artificial chandelier light. Too perfect. Too empty.

The elevator ride was silent, save for the soft instrumental music playing overhead — some hollow classical piece she couldn’t place. She didn’t bother watching the floors light up.

Thirty-fourth floor.

Apartment 34B.

She didn’t knock. She never did.

She slid the key into the door, turned the knob with a gentle push, and stepped inside.

Then stopped cold.

The soft clack of her shoes against marble cut off as her eyes landed on the hallway in front of her.

A trail of clothes snaked toward the master bedroom like breadcrumbs from a story she already knew the ending to.

A sheer red blouse. A black lace bra, twisted and inside out. One stiletto heel tipped over on its side, the other completely missing.

They weren’t hers.

Her breath caught in her throat — not in shock, not anymore. It was the sigh that came next that told the truth. Deep. Familiar. A sigh that belonged to someone who had seen this before.

Then she heard them.

The sounds.

Moans — slow at first, then faster. Louder. Sharper. Too polished to be real. The kind of noises that begged to be overheard. Somewhere behind the closed door, the rhythm of the bed creaked against the wall in perfect time.

“Ah—yes, baby—right there…”

Rey closed her eyes.

Her jaw tightened. Her lips pressed into a thin, controlled line. She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t barge in. She just… turned around, stepped out, and shut the door behind her.

A soft click. That was all.

She stood in the hallway, the hum of the building buzzing faintly in the walls. It was clean. Cold. Lifeless. Almost like the halls of a hospital. She could almost pretend this wasn’t her life.

The elevator opened and she stepped in without thinking, riding back down in silence, staring at her own reflection in the steel paneling. Her face was pale, her brown eyes dulled from exhaustion. There was a faint pink mark on her temple where her stethoscope had dug into her skin all day.

Back in her car, she exhaled through her nose, the air inside the vehicle still thick from earlier. She didn’t even have the energy to turn on the A/C. Instead, she reached over, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out the small white stick she’d stashed there that morning.

The pregnancy test.

She didn’t need to double-check. She already knew.

Negative.

Again.

She held it between her fingers and studied it like it was a puzzle she couldn’t solve. The single red line mocked her. Just one. As if that thin stripe could define everything about her body — about her worth.

They’d been trying for three years.

Or rather, his parents had been trying. Pressuring. Prying.

Tony and Lucy Mirage were classic social climbers — obsessed with legacy, obsessed with image. And their perfect son, Alexander Mirage, was supposed to deliver the next generation of glamour, prestige, and success. A child was expected. A son, ideally. Someone to carry on the name.

But Rey’s womb remained stubbornly empty.

She could still hear Lucy’s clipped voice in her memory: “You should really have some tests run, darling. At your age, fertility starts dropping rapidly.”

Her age? She was twenty-four.

She’d married Alex at nineteen, on a whirlwind weekend trip to Las Vegas. Drunk off impulse, lust, and cheap champagne. A spontaneous courthouse wedding, rings from a pawn shop, promises neither of them understood.

This should be a lesson to all to never drink while being underage.

And now, five years later, she was locked into a life that looked perfect on the outside but felt like slow suffocation.

Her husband was handsome, wealthy, charming in public — and a compulsive cheater in private. A man who thought a bouquet of apology roses erased lipstick on his collar.

And worst of all, he blamed her.

“Maybe if your body wasn’t so broken,” he’d spat at her once during a fight. “I’m doing everything I’m supposed to. It’s not me, Rey. It’s you.”

Sometimes, when the house was quiet and the lies were louder than the silence, she believed him.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She wiped it away quickly, almost angrily, and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. The smooth leather was warm against her skin.

She closed her eyes.

And let herself drift.

Two Hours Later

The city had changed.

Where there had once been noise and color, now there was quiet. A hush fell over the skyline like a thick blanket — the soft hum of air traffic fading into the distance, streetlights casting elongated shadows on the pavement. Most of the windows above were glowing softly — families settling in, lovers tangled up in sheets, someone reading by lamplight.

Normal lives.

The building lobby had dimmed since she last walked through it. A single night porter at the front desk offered her a nod, but she barely registered it. Her limbs were heavy, her eyes gritty with sleep. The elevator doors slid open, the same hollow music playing softly — cheerful, empty.

By the time she reached the thirty-fourth floor, her chest felt tight, her heart pounding with a quiet ache that had nothing to do with stairs or fatigue. She didn’t know what she expected to find.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

She unlocked the door.

The apartment was dim, bathed in a low golden glow from the kitchen’s under-cabinet lights.  The earlier chaos had been erased. The hallway was clean. The clothes were gone. The bedroom door now stood ajar, still — like a mouth caught mid-confession and silenced.

But the air gave it away.

A lingering haze of cologne and cheap perfume hung thick in the air — cloying, synthetic, a scent that didn’t belong to her. There was a half-drunk glass of red wine on the counter, with lipstick smeared faintly on the rim. Crimson. Bold. Confident.

She didn’t wear lipstick.

Not anymore.

Alex was on the couch, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, scrolling his phone like nothing in the world had shifted. His hair was tousled from sex, not sleep. His shirt hung open, the top buttons undone, chest still flushed faintly pink.

He looked up, like he’d been waiting just for her.

“There you are,” he said, standing slowly, smoothing his shirt like a host greeting a late guest. “I’ve missed you.”

Missed her? Yeah right.

Rey didn’t speak. She just stepped inside and shut the door behind her. Her keys clinked against the bowl by the entryway — a little too loud in the quiet.

Alex crossed the room and came up behind her, hands sliding easily around her waist like this was still a marriage, like nothing had happened. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled deeply, the kiss he pressed to her skin far too soft to be sincere.

“You work too much,” he whispered. “Come to bed.”

His hands slipped lower.

She flinched.

Not visibly — but enough. Enough that she felt it in every nerve, in every breath. Her body didn’t trust him anymore. Maybe it never had.

The silence buzzed louder than any noise. No more moans. No soft lies whispered into her neck. Just stillness — and her.

“Let me help you relax.”

Rey stood still as stone, jaw locked.

She didn’t push him off.

But she didn’t touch him back either.

Instead, she slowly reached into the front pocket of her bag, fingers closing around the object she’d tucked there earlier. She brought it up between them — held it between two fingers like it might burn her — and offered it without ceremony.

The white stick. The pregnancy test.

Still negative.

She didn’t have the energy to sugarcoat it.

“It’s negative,” she said quietly. Blunt. Exhausted. There was no anger in her voice. Just resignation.

His arms dropped.

The shift in him was instant. The charm vanished. The warmth evaporated.

His eyes locked on the test, then flicked up to her face.

His jaw clenched. Shoulders stiffened.

And then, with a bitter breath, he muttered, “Of course it is.”

He didn’t look at her — not really.

He turned his back instead, brushing past her like she was the one who’d ruined the night. Like she’d disappointed him.

“And whose fault is that?” he snapped, not even waiting for an answer. “Certainly not mine.”

He didn’t yell.

He never needed to.

That was the thing about Alex Mirage — his cruelty was never loud. It was quiet. Precision-cut. Dismissive. Delivered with a shrug and a smirk and a closing door.

Which he did now — slamming the bedroom shut behind him without another word.

Rey stood in the center of their pristine apartment, still holding the test.

The silence swallowed her.

She looked down at the stick. Just one red line. One single, perfect line that told her everything she already knew. The failure was always hers — according to him, according to his parents, maybe even according to her own reflection.

She made her way slowly to the couch, legs heavy, heart heavier. She sat down, sinking into the leather like it might swallow her whole. The test sat beside her on the cushion, a single pink line mocking her in the glow of the city lights beyond the glass.

She turned her gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows. From thirty-four stories up, the city looked quiet. Peaceful. The chaos blurred by distance. Speeder lights moved below in glittering ribbons — flickering like stars, falling in reverse.

She’d thought about leaving. A hundred times. Maybe a thousand. But the thought always crumbled under the weight of the same question:

Where would she go?

She had no family. Few friends. Everything she had, every brick of her adult life, had been built inside this gilded cage. And yet… she’d been saving. Quietly. Patiently. Tucking away scraps of every paycheck, folded and hidden at the back of her dresser drawer. Her job at Chandrila General hadn’t paid much. But Organa would.

Her transfer to Organa Children’s Hospital — that was more than a job. It was her lifeline.

Maybe, if she was careful, if she endured just a little longer… she could leave. Really leave.

Her fingers grazed the windowsill. Cold glass. Cold sky. Her reflection stared back at her, faint and uncertain.

Working with children broke her and healed her all at once. She loved it. She loved their hope, their laughter, their resilience. But every smile, every giggle, every impossibly tiny heartbeat she monitored, every mother she reassured — it all reminded her of what she couldn’t have.

What she might never have.

What he blamed her for.

Tears stung again, but she blinked hard, swallowed them down, and stared at the ceiling.

She blinked slowly and let her forehead rest against the cool pane. Outside, the stars were fading behind low clouds, and night bled deeper into the skyline.

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow something changes.

And miles across the city — in a sterile operating room filled with the hum of machines and the soft beeping of a heart monitor — Dr. Ben Solo peeled off his gloves after a six-hour pediatric cardiac repair.

He didn’t know it yet, but tomorrow… something would change for him, too.

Chapter Text

The clock on Rey’s dashboard read 6:37 a.m.

She stared at it like it might blink and fast-forward — as if staring long enough would shift time itself — but the numbers held steady, smug and unmoved. Her fingers curled tighter around the lukewarm ceramic of her travel mug, the scent of chamomile long faded, replaced by the sour tang of nerves.

Three more minutes.

The silence inside the car felt padded. Muted. Outside, the city was beginning its slow, methodical stretch into morning. Delivery trucks wheezed down narrow streets. A bike zipped by, its rider still yawning. From somewhere down the block, the scent of fresh bread and strong coffee drifted up — the kind of early-morning comfort Rey didn’t feel like she had a right to yet.

She sat in the back corner of the staff lot, parked beneath a crooked lamppost that flickered once before cutting out. Her eyes lingered on the building across the street — Organa Children’s Hospital, sprawling and modern, with endless rows of glass and brushed steel. A living, breathing place, already lit up in a hundred tiny rectangles. Some floors were quiet. Others buzzed with activity.

A woman walked past the glass entrance holding a sleepy toddler in footie pajamas. A security guard opened the door with a familiar nod. A group of residents in identical ligh blue  scrubs huddled near the loading dock, laughing too loudly for the hour.

Rey felt like she was watching someone else’s life.

6:39.

She exhaled sharply, thumb tapping a nervous rhythm on the cup’s lid. Her heart had started its habitual, fluttering rhythm — the same one that had shown up on her first day of nursing school, on the morning of her licensing exam, and every single time she’d had to walk into a new patient room alone.

New halls. New people. New expectations.

She was good at this. She had to be.

6:40.

She opened the door.

The warm, thick air of July hit her like a wave. She tucked her keys into her side pocket, adjusted the strap of her canvas bag, and crossed the street with quiet purpose. Her sneakers squeaked faintly with each step, the sound oddly grounding.

The hospital’s main entrance was bright, airy — not sterile, but alive. Sunlight poured in through tall glass windows, reflecting off the pale marble floors. The scent of hand sanitizer clung to every surface, mingling with the occasional note of lavender diffusers placed near the welcome desk. A large mobile of origami birds spun gently from the high ceiling. A toddler in sparkly boots giggled as they chased bubbles from a sensory machine, while their exhausted father half-heartedly read a laminated brochure.

Rey shifted her bag higher on her shoulder and approached the front desk.

A middle-aged woman looked up, glasses with cherry-red rims sliding slightly down her nose. Her nametag read Martha. She smiled kindly.

“Hi there — you’re early. New hire?”

Rey nodded. “Rey Mirage. Pediatric nurse. Today’s my first day — I transferred from Chandrila General.”

Martha’s smile widened. “Welcome to Organa, sweetheart. Let’s see…” She clicked a few buttons on her desktop and nodded. “You’re meeting with Jolene — Nursing Director. She’s expecting you. Third door on the right down that hallway.”

“Thank you,” Rey said, tucking her temporary badge — REY MIRAGE. VISITOR — neatly against her scrub top before following the directions.

The hallway was quiet this early. Every step echoed faintly beneath the soft overhead lights. Her shoes, her breath, even the crinkle of her bag’s zipper sounded too loud. She found the door with a gold placard that read Jolene Kestrel, RN – Director of Nursing and paused for half a second before knocking once.

“Come in!”

Rey stepped into the office.

It was surprisingly cozy — bookshelves lined with clinical manuals and plant pots, a warm-toned rug beneath a sleek desk, and a framed photo of two golden retrievers on a beach. The woman behind the desk stood and offered a hand immediately.

Short, curvy, with straight blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears, Jolene radiated authority and approachability in equal parts. Her smile was quick, but her eyes scanned like a scanner — precise, calculating.

“Rey Mirage — twenty minutes early,” Jolene said, shaking her hand firmly. Her grip was strong. “That’s impressive. First gold star of the day.”

Rey returned the handshake, letting herself smile — tight, but real. “Actually… I’ve been here since 5:45. Just didn’t want to come off too eager.”

Jolene laughed — full and genuine, hands on her hips. “Early-early. You’re one of those. Good. This place runs on caffeine and paranoia. Prepared nurses are rare gifts.”

Rey let out a small breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Jolene walked around the desk and handed her a slim manila folder. “This has your schedule for the next two weeks, your training assignments, and some admin fluff you can sign later. But first—tour. I don’t like throwing people to the wolves without a proper orientation. Follow me.”

Rey did, matching her stride as they stepped back out into the hallway.

The tour was nothing short of exhaustive.

Jolene moved through the hospital like she’d been born inside its walls — confident, exact, familiar in the way a mother is with her own home. She pointed out each shortcut with a flick of her hand, warning Rey which stairwell was always blocked during lunch hours, which vending machine always stole your change, and which elevators would drop you off half a wing away from where you thought you were going.

Rey followed closely, her sneakers squeaking slightly against the polished tile, her senses pulled in every direction — pastel-colored signage, the hum of conversation, the sterile-but-not-unpleasant smell of antiseptic and floor wax, the faint static of a nearby intercom paging someone overhead.

Everything was color-coded. Each department marked by bold stripes and murals painted by local artists — gentle brushstrokes of whales and galaxies and hot air balloons that made even the coldest corners of the hospital feel tender. It was almost disarming how warm it all felt — how far from clinical.

“This here is our pediatric oncology wing,” Jolene said, gesturing toward a glass-paneled hallway lined with origami cranes in the windows. “Hardest hall in the hospital, but our strongest nurses work here.”

Rey nodded quietly, heart tugging.

They passed the physical therapy unit, where the sounds of a child giggling floated through an open door as a boy tossed beanbags into a painted bullseye. Then the NICU — nestled safely on the second floor, its entry protected by keycard access. Behind the glass, Rey glimpsed rows of incubators, tiny silhouettes and nurses moving like clockwork.

“And this—” Jolene turned a sharp corner and motioned down a long corridor, “—is our emergency pediatric wing. Stretches the entire south end of the first floor. Controlled chaos down here.”

Rey followed the arc of the hall with her eyes — doors opening and closing, triage carts zipping by, parents pacing with tear-streaked faces. The reality of the job. She took a slow breath and centered herself.

“And finally,” Jolene said, pressing the elevator button for 4, “your floor.”

They stepped into the lift, the doors gliding closed with a soft hum.

“You’ll be in the Pediatric Cardiac Intensive Care Unit — CICU. One of the top in the state, arguably the country. We don’t say that lightly.”

Rey’s stomach tensed. Praise always made her feel slightly off-balance — as though she hadn’t quite earned it yet.

“Small team,” Jolene continued, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket. “High pressure. But based on what I’ve read in your file — and heard from Chandrila — you’ll be just fine.”

The elevator dinged, and when the doors slid open, Rey noticed it instantly: the change in tone.

The fourth floor felt different.

There were still murals, the painted clouds and friendly sea creatures. But somehow the air was still. Monitors beeped in soft syncopation from behind frosted glass doors. Nurses moved with quiet precision, voices low, charts in hand.

There were only thirteen rooms, all glass-fronted, with privacy modes that could shift the panels from transparent to opaque. Some doors were closed. Some slightly ajar. Every one of them housed fragile hearts.

“This is the nerve center,” Jolene said, stepping into the central nurse’s station, a U-shaped desk surrounded by wall monitors displaying vitals. “Each room is monitored continuously. You’ll get used to the rhythms — what’s urgent, what’s stable, what’s a ticking clock.”

Rey nodded, letting her eyes absorb the layout. This wasn’t her first ICU, but something about this place felt more intimate. Heavier.

“You’ll report to Dr. Dameron,” Jolene said, leading her past the supply cart. “You’ll see him on your rounds — he’s lead peds cardio. Strict but fair. Great teacher, just don’t be late.”

They passed two residents who greeted Jolene quickly and gave Rey a curious once-over.

“And,” she added, pausing before opening a supply closet, “we’ve got a cardiac surgeon who floats in and out. Likes to do surprise checks on his patients.”

Rey looked up. “Surprise checks?”

Jolene smirked. “Yeah. Dr. Solo. He’s…” She searched for the right word. “…particular. Not unfriendly, just intense. Brilliant though. The kind of guy who remembers which twin had a murmur six years ago and what OR playlist was playing when he fixed it.”

“Sounds… memorable.”

“He is,” Jolene said, shrugging. “You’ll meet him eventually.”

With that, they circled back to the nurse’s station.

“Your badge should be ready downstairs. Go ahead and grab it. They’ll also give you your locker number and your first case. You’re officially on shift once you’re back up here.”

Rey offered her a grateful smile. “Thanks, Jolene. For the tour. And the welcome.”

Jolene waved her off. “Don’t thank me yet. We run a tight ship. But we take care of our own. Go get settled.”

Rey nodded and headed for the elevators again, cutting through the maze of floors she now knew by memory.

The front desk was quieter now — the morning rush somehow slowing.

The same red-glasses woman from earlier smiled as Rey approached.

“There you are. Just in time. Let’s get you official,” she said, pulling out a small envelope. “Here’s your badge, locker number, and a printout of your first patient. You’ll be in Room 421.”

Rey took the small stack and looked down.

REY MIRAGE, RN – PEDIATRIC CICU

A new badge.

A new name.

A new chapter.

The badge felt heavier than it should have.

Rey turned it over in her fingers — crisp lettering, Organa Children’s crest stamped beside her name like it belonged there. 

She clipped it to her collar and turned toward the elevators, heading back up to the fourth floor. Her fingers were still adjusting the badge, aligning it just right, when—

Thud.

She collided into someone.

Hard.

Her shoulder slammed into solid chest, her badge flew from her hand, and her breath hitched from the sudden jolt.

“Shit, sorry,” a deep voice muttered, steadying her with a quick, instinctive grip to her arm.

“It’s fine—my fault,” Rey said at the same time, crouching down quickly to retrieve the badge that had skittered across the linoleum. She brushed a thumb across it, more embarrassed than anything.

When she looked up, her breath caught again — for a very different reason.

The man was tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair black and unruly, like he hadn’t bothered trying to tame it. His scrubs were dark navy, almost black in the dim hallway light. A stethoscope looped casually around his neck, and in his left hand he held a cup of coffee, half full, as if he’d been halfway through his first sip when she’d run into him.

But it was his eyes that froze her.

Not just their depth — though they were dark, framed by tired shadows — but the way they studied her. Intently. Curiously. Not unkind, but certainly not passive.

“You’re new,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question. Just a fact he’d cataloged instantly.

Rey blinked once. “Yeah. Rey. Mirage.” She cleared her throat, corrected herself. “RN. Transfer from Chandrila General.”

She held up the badge awkwardly, still between her fingers like a hall pass.

He nodded once. “Ben,” he said simply, extending his free hand without setting the coffee down. “Cardiothoracic.”

She took it. His grip was firm — not too much, not performative. Just steady. Confident.

“You okay?” he asked, a brow raised slightly. “Didn’t mean to barrel into you.”

Rey gave a half shrug. “I’ve survived worse.” The corners of her mouth quirked before she could stop it.

And something flickered across his face then — a twitch of a smile, quick and subtle, gone before it ever fully formed.

“Welcome to Organa,” he said, stepping back slightly now, giving her space.

Then: “You transferred from Chandrila, huh? That place burns through nurses like engines burn fuel.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Sounds about right. I made it two years. Which I guess is… a record?”

“Or a red flag,” he teased, the dry edge in his voice softened by a spark of interest.

Rey looked down at the slim chart folder in her other hand. First patient. First case.

Ben nodded toward it, already familiar. “That’s Dax. Six years old. Tetralogy of Fallot. Had a full repair when he was three. Back now with post-op complications — arrhythmia, some fluid accumulation. Sweet kid. Bit of a dinosaur obsession.”

She stared at him. “You remembered all that… off the top of your head?”

He just shrugged. “You remember the impactful ones.”

There was no arrogance in the way he said it. Just truth. As if it never occurred to him not to carry that kind of information — not to carry them.

And something about that — the weight he held without showing it — made her chest ache.

Not with attraction, not exactly.

But with recognition.

He turned then, already stepping away, his gait smooth and quiet, shoulders squared like he hadn’t just left an impression deep enough to echo.

“Well. I’ll see you around,” he said over his shoulder, without slowing down.

And just like that, he was gone — disappearing around the corner like a chapter Rey hadn’t meant to start reading.

She stood there for another beat longer than necessary, the hum of fluorescent lights in her ears, her thoughts spinning faster than they should’ve been after a simple hallway bump.

Then she shook herself, clipped her badge back onto her collar — securely this time — and headed for the elevators.

The day was beginning.

There were patients waiting.

No time for distractions.

But for the first time that morning — hell, for the first time in weeks — she felt something stirring.

Not dread.

Not guilt.

Not exhaustion.

Curiosity.

Chapter Text

After her encounter with Dr. Solo, Rey made her way down to the locker room, still thinking about the odd flicker of something she’d felt in his eyes—curiosity? Amusement? Whatever it was, it had thrown her off-balance.

She pushed through the heavy door, the air inside cooler and filled with the subtle scent of laundry detergent and dry-erase markers. It was quiet, save for the low hum of overhead lights and the soft creak of metal lockers lining the walls in neat rows.

She walked slowly, scanning the tags until she spotted it — MIRAGE, REY– #23 — etched neatly on a small brass plaque. Her fingers hovered there for a moment. New locker. New floor. 

She opened it and placed her bag on the top shelf, then unzipped her lunch tote, nudging it into the bottom corner. Her fingers were still adjusting the zipper when the door opened behind her with a sharp click and a burst of noise.

“I told you the vending machine hates me. It’s personal at this point,” came a voice — cheerful, fast-talking, slightly muffled by the lid of a coffee cup.

Rey turned, startled but curious.

A woman entered first — round face, short-cropped black hair tucked behind her ears, and dark pink scrubs covered in little embroidered hearts. She was immediately followed by a tall man in light-blue scrubs, clipboard under one arm and a half-dried coffee stain blooming across his left sleeve like a badge of honor.

The woman’s eyes landed on Rey, lighting up with recognition.

“Oh! New face!”

The man squinted as if confirming she was knew. “You’re not a ghost. Damn, I lost a bet.”

Rey let out a soft laugh and straightened up. “Rey Mirage. Transfer from Chandrila General. First day.”

The woman set her coffee down and extended her hand with enthusiasm. “I’m Rose! You’re CICU, right? I’m also CICU. Welcome to the jungle.”

“Finn,” the man added, raising his coffee in a lazy salute. “Looks like another recruit for the cardiac chaos crew.”

Rose rolled her eyes and leaned against her open locker. “Finn’s been here a while. He’s a resident.”

Rey blinked. “Wait — you’re a surgeon?”

Finn chuckled. “Technically, yeah. Third year of the I-6 pathway. Cardiothoracic. I’ve been a heart nerd since I could pronounce ‘atrioventricular.’”

Rey glanced around at the rows of lockers. “Then… what are you doing in here? This is the nurses’ locker room.”

He grinned like he’d been waiting for someone to ask. “Ah, yes. The eternal mystery.”

Rose crossed her arms. “Go on. Tell her.”

Finn leaned against the locker beside Rey’s, posture relaxed. “So when I first started, HR accidentally assigned me a locker here. When they offered to switch it, I checked out the surgeons’ locker room.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Total disaster. Crowded. Loud. Reeked of gym socks, overcompensation, and it smelled like protein powder and regret.”

Rose made a face. “And someone always steals your pen.”

“Exactly,” Finn said, pointing at her with mock seriousness. “But in here? It’s calm. Clean. Smells like lavender and trauma bonding. So… I stayed.”

Rey laughed — a real, easy sound that surprised her with how natural it felt. “So you’re an honorary nurse now?”

“Basically,” Rose said. “We haven’t given him a keychain yet, but he’s earned it.”

Rey closed her locker, smiling faintly. “How long have you been at Organa?”

“I’m almost a year in,” Rose replied. “Graduated nursing school at twenty-two. Couldn’t find a job for a while — rough market, you know? Organa gave me a shot, and I’ve been here ever since.”

“Ohh, I graduated at twenty-two too,” Rey said, pleased.

Rose gasped playfully. “Twins! But unfortunately, it is nothing compared to this guy.”

She pulled a hair tie from her wrist and tossed it at Finn, who caught it mid-air.

“He’s a literal prodigy. Finished high school at sixteen, knocked out his bachelor’s in three years, started med school at nineteen, graduated at twenty-three, and now he’s out here saving tiny hearts.”

Rey turned to him, wide-eyed. “Wait, seriously?”

Finn rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. My parents thought I was broken when I started labeling heart diagrams for fun in middle school.”

Rose shook her head in mock disgust. “Overachiever.”

“Chronically,” Finn agreed with a grin.

Rey smiled again, her nerves slowly untangling. These two weren’t just coworkers — they were something close to… kind.

“Well,” she said softly, “I guess I’m in good company.”

“You’re in excellent company,” Finn replied. “This place is intense, but it’s also full of people who care way too much. You’ll fit right in.”

“And if you ever need help finding anything — or someone to sabotage the vending machine with,” Rose added, “I’m your girl. We’ve got each other. And soon? You’ll feel like you’ve been here forever.”

Rey glanced between them, warmth rising in her chest.

“Thanks. Really.”

Rose nudged her gently. “Come on — let’s grab coffee before your first patient. I’ll show you which machine doesn’t try to kill you.”

Rey followed them out of the locker room, the fluorescent lights fading behind her.

She hadn’t expected friendship. Not on her first day. Not this quickly.

But as the three of them walked down the hallway — Finn talking about a ridiculous surgeon he shadowed last week, Rose humming in agreement — Rey felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Maybe she wasn’t just starting over.

Maybe she was actually beginning.

Later

Room 421: Dax

Rey adjusted the strap of her stethoscope as the elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime. The soft hush of the fourth floor greeted her — that sterile hospital quiet that was never truly silent. The Pediatric CICU was like a strange in-between world: bright, playful, deceptively warm. Cartoon murals lined the hallway walls — hand-painted animals in scrubs, jungle vines twining around ceiling beams, soft clouds above the nurses’ station. She could faintly hear the hum of monitors, the intermittent beeping of telemetry alarms, the roll of gurneys down linoleum floors.

And then there were the sounds that reminded her why she was here: a toddler’s laughter from somewhere behind a closed door, the low murmur of nurses trading notes in clipped but gentle tones.

Her palms felt slightly damp against the folder she held. First patient. First real moment on the floor.

She glanced down.

Patient: Dax Lormer. Age: 6.

Diagnosis: Tetralogy of Fallot (Post-Op Complications).

Arrhythmia. Pericardial effusion. Surgical history.

And a note scribbled in the margin: “Bright kid. Ask him about dinosaurs.”

Rey exhaled through her nose and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Then, file in hand, she made her way to Room 421.

The door was cracked open. Inside, the lighting was dim — the soft yellow of the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows against the blue colored walls. Medical equipment lined the wall opposite the bed, IV pole humming quietly, telemetry monitor blinking with jagged green lines that mapped out the rhythm of a small, stubborn heart.

On the bed sat a little boy, wearing a faded hospital gown with tiny rocket ships on it. His hair was a chaotic mess of soft curls, clearly from a recent nap or a very enthusiastic wrestling match with his pillow. He was hunched forward, legs crossed, intensely focused on a plastic dinosaur in his lap. He made little growling sounds as he moved its limbs, oblivious to the world around him.

A man — early thirties, maybe — sat slouched in the chair beside him. He had dark stubble, the kind born of several sleepless nights, and hair pulled into a half-hearted knot. There were bags under his eyes and a paper cup of coffee forgotten in his hands. He looked up when Rey knocked gently on the doorframe.

“Hi,” she said softly, stepping inside with a warm, cautious smile. “I’m Rey Mirage. I’m one of the nurses in the unit — I’ll be taking care of Dax today.”

The little boy turned to her at once, wide hazel eyes meeting hers. “Are you new?” he asked, already suspicious, already curious.

She nodded. “First day, actually.”

His face lit up with wonder. “Then I’m your first patient?”

“You are,” Rey said, setting the folder aside and stepping closer. “And I’m very lucky, aren’t I?”

He beamed, lifting his dinosaur into the air like it was some kind of medal. “This is Blue. She’s a girl. And she’s a velociraptor but she only bites mean doctors. Not nice ones. Especially not the snack-lady nurse who brings pudding.”

The man gave a hoarse chuckle and rubbed a hand down his face. “He’s very protective of Blue. And pudding.”

“I can see that,” Rey smiled, crouching beside the bed so she was eye-level with him. She extended her hand — not to Dax, but to Blue. “Nice to meet you, Blue. I promise no pudding theft and zero needles today.”

Dax nodded gravely. “She says you passed the vibe check.”

“High praise.” Rey looked up at the man. “I take it you’re Dad?”

“Wes,” he said, offering her a tired but genuine smile. “Dax’s full-time dinosaur handler and part-time worry machine. He had a full repair when he was three — everything looked good for a while. But last week, he started getting tired faster, then the arrhythmias started. They caught some fluid buildup yesterday, so we’re just… watching, waiting. It’s been a long few days.”

Rey softened. “I’m sorry. But he’s in good hands here.”

Wes nodded, glancing at his son. “We’ve been lucky so far.”

She turned back to Dax. “I was told you’re the dinosaur expert on this floor.”

“I am,” he said proudly. “I have twenty-three dino toys and I know all their names. Except the ones Dr. Solo made up.”

Rey blinked. “Ben?”

“Yeah,” Wes offered with a nod. “The Pediatric Cardiothoracic. He’s been handling most of Dax’s post-op care. A little… intense, but good with kids.”

“He drew me a heart with all the parts labeled,” Dax added. “And he told me my heart is stubborn.”

Rey smiled faintly. That tracked.

“Well then, I‘m going to be very gentle,” she said, adjusting the stethoscope around her neck. “No scary stuff. Just checking your vitals and saying hello to your heart.”

“Can you hear it with that?” Dax asked, pointing at her stethoscope.

“With this?” she said, tapping it lightly. “Absolutely.”

He pulled up his gown without hesitation, revealing a small, faded scar down the center of his chest. It was clean, well-healed, but unmistakable — the kind of scar that left a mark on more than just skin.

Rey warmed the diaphragm of her stethoscope against her wrist, then placed it gently against his chest. She closed her eyes and listened — the soft thump-thump, irregular, the flutter of skipped beats in between. It was like listening to a song that had lost its rhythm, a record skipping on the chorus.

“You have a very brave heart,” she said softly, removing the stethoscope.

Dax grinned. “Told you.”

She straightened up. “And you’ve got Blue to help, so I think you’re unstoppable.”

He held up his stuffed stegosaurus. “This is Spike. He’s Blue’s assistant.”

“Noted,” Rey said seriously. “I’ll add it to the chart.”

Wes laughed quietly and reached over to smooth Dax’s hair. “You’re winning people over again, buddy.”

Rey handed Dax the call button. “If you need anything — juice, cartoons, backup from a nurse or dinosaur — just press this, okay?”

Dax took it solemnly. “You’re calm,” he said, as if it were the highest compliment. “I like you.”

Rey froze for half a second. That simple sentence hit something raw inside her — a still lake disturbed by a single drop. She’d spent so long lately feeling like her insides were anything but calm.

She smiled. “Thank you. I like you too.”

Wes leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long, tired breath. “I know the first days can be rough. But you handled that like a pro.”

Rey gave a small shrug. “He made it easy.”

As she turned to leave, Dax called after her: “Hey, Rey?”

She looked over her shoulder.

“Don’t forget to come back later. Blue gets lonely.”

Rey smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As she stepped out of the room and gently pulled the door shut behind her, Rey exhaled — a long, slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The hallway hummed around her with quiet energy. Distant voices from the nurses’ station. The soft squeak of sneakers on waxed linoleum. The rhythmic beeping from a monitor two doors down. But in that sliver of stillness, Rey just stood there — rooted in place, heart steady for the first time in what felt like weeks.

Her hand lingered briefly on the doorknob.

This.

This was why she’d come.

Not just to leave something behind.

Not even just to disappear into the work.

She was here for the small voices — the ones that made dinosaur sounds with plastic toys. For the tiny chests with big scars. For the way a kid could look at her and say you’re calm like it meant something. Like it mattered.

She was here for the stubborn hearts.

The ones that still believed in hope and pudding cups.

The ones that didn’t know how to quit — even when their bodies gave them every reason to.

And maybe, in taking care of them, she’d remember how to take care of herself.

From further down the hallway, Rose rounded the corner, expertly balancing two paper cups in her hands, steam curling from the lids.

“There you are,” she said, breathless but smiling. “Report just finished. Looks like you’ve officially got the Dino King.”

Rey blinked. “Dino  King?”

Rose offered her a cup and a knowing grin. “Dax Lormer. Six years old, rules this entire hallway. You’ll see.”

Rey chuckled, accepting the coffee gratefully even though she had already had coffee. “He did introduce me to his velociraptor.”

“Oh, Blue? You’re in. But don’t get cocky.” Rose took a sip of her drink. “Wait till he asks to draw your blood. Total rite of passage.”

They both laughed, the sound soft but real, and Rey felt something shift in her chest. Not relief exactly — but a loosening. A breath of air where everything had felt heavy.

Together, they walked down the corridor, the weight of the day a little lighter now. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and the faint smell of grape-flavored medicine hung in the air. Another child cried in the distance, and a nurse ducked into a room with a warm voice and calm hands.

Rey glanced back once, just for a moment.

The door to Room 421 was closed now — a pale wooden barrier, plain and unremarkable. But behind it, a six-year-old with wild hair and fierce toys had let her into his world like it was the most natural thing.

And something in her — something bruised and restless — had steadied in return.

Maybe healing didn’t come in grand gestures or fresh starts.

Maybe it began here.

Quietly. Patiently.

One scar.

One smile.

One stubborn little heart at a time.

Chapter Text

Ben’s POV

Ben Solo stood at the back counter of the fourth-floor staff lounge, rinsing out his travel mug like it had personally offended him. The break room was half-empty, the smell of burnt coffee hanging stubbornly in the air, and he was already thirty minutes behind on charting. Not that that was new.

Behind him, the door swung open with the quiet hiss of compressed air.

“Solo,” came the familiar voice. Confident, relaxed. A little too smug for this early in the day.

Ben didn’t have to turn. “Poe.”

Dr. Poe Dameron entered the room with the usual energy of someone who’d just walked off a magazine cover — crisp scrubs, perfect hair, and a stupid smile that meant he was either high on caffeine or mischief.

Or both.

“Guess who finally convinced the ortho girls to let me borrow their massage chair,” Poe said, swinging his coffee cup in a lazy arc.

Ben raised an eyebrow. “By flirting or bribery?”

Poe smirked. “Why not both?”

Ben shook his head and turned back to his mug. “You know, for someone who technically has a girlfriend—”

“Correction,” Poe interrupted, plopping down into a chair. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She slept over at your place three nights last week.”

“Yeah. And?”

Ben shot him a look.

Poe waved a hand. “Come on, she’s not exactly the commitment type. Neither am I. It’s not love. It’s not even like. She’s fun. And she likes the finer things.”

Ben leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “She’s using you.”

Poe raised his cup. “And I’m letting her.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m honest.”

Ben didn’t argue that — Poe had always been blunt, especially about things other people danced around.

Across the room, the door opened again. A trio of nurses entered — two of them clearly trying not to look at Poe, the third one not even pretending.

Poe smiled at her. “Morning, Gina. Nice earrings.”

She turned pink. “Thanks, Dr. Dameron.”

Ben deadpanned, “You’re exhausting.”

Gina and her friends giggled as they passed, and Poe shrugged like it couldn’t be helped. “What? I’m polite. I like to compliment people.”

“You flirt like it’s a bodily function.”

“I call it morale-boosting.”

Ben snorted. “Pretty sure HR has a different word for it.”

The teasing faded into a quieter rhythm as Ben grabbed a protein bar from the vending machine and peeled it open. Poe took a sip from his coffee and tilted his head.

“You seem weird today. Tired weird, not moody weird.”

Ben chewed slowly. “Just saw one of my post-ops again — Dax Lormer. Kid’s tougher than he looks.”

“Oh yeah, the Fallot repair. You’ve been on that one since surgery.”

Ben nodded. “He’s got complications, but he’s hanging in.”

Poe watched him for a second. “You get attached.”

Ben shrugged. “You don’t?”

Poe leaned back, stretching. “I try not to. It gets messy.”

“Life’s messy.”

“Exactly why I keep it simple.”

Ben tossed the wrapper and grabbed his mug. “Well, keep it simple away from the nurses’ station. You’re starting to leave a trail.”

Poe grinned. “Jealous?”

Ben gave him a dry look. “Terrified.”

The pager on Poe’s hip buzzed. He glanced down, then stood. “Rounds call. Later, lover boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ben muttered, but Poe was already halfway out the door, throwing a wink over his shoulder at a blushing intern.

Ben watched him go, shaking his head.

Poe was chaos wrapped in charm — and somehow, they’d been friends for years. He didn’t entirely understand it.

But then again, Poe probably didn’t understand why Ben was still thinking about a woman with brown hair who had no idea who he was the first time they met.

Ben stepped out of the break room, thoughts lingering somewhere between a chart error and a dino-obsessed six-year-old.

The hospital buzzed around him, floors alive with the predictable rhythm of beeping monitors and clipped footsteps. He barely noticed anymore. Organa Children’s was practically home — more than his actual apartment, anyway.

He took the elevator up to the fifth floor, bypassing the surgical suite. He had a few minutes before his first consult. And besides, if he didn’t stop by now, she’d just text.

The plaque outside the office door read in clean brass:

Leia Organa, M.D. — Chief of Pediatric Surgery

He knocked once before letting himself in.

Leia was behind her desk, glasses perched low on her nose, flipping through a thick binder. She looked up immediately. “You’re five minutes later than usual.”

Ben smirked and closed the door behind him. “Got caught in the break room. Poe left half a donut in the box and I made a poor life decision.”

Leia tilted her head. “You’re a cardiac surgeon. Your poor life decisions should be limited to cross-clamps and ex-girlfriends.”

“Wow. Shots fired.”

She smiled — that quiet, unreadable expression only his mother could pull off. “Coffee?”

“I already stole some.”

“You always do.”

Ben took a seat across from her, sprawling lazily in the chair like he had when he was fifteen and grounded for taking apart the microwave. The familiarity was strange, comforting.

Leia leaned back and folded her hands. “We’ve got a new nurse.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “There are a lot of new nurses.”

“This one’s special.” A pause. 

Ben frowned slightly, curious but disinterested. “Okay…”

Leia’s voice was pointed now. “Rey Mirage. She’s in your unit.”

His gaze flicked up at that. The name struck something — not just because he’d met her briefly earlier that morning. Mirage.

She continued, as if she hadn’t noticed. “She transferred in from Chandrila. I want you to be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

Leia gave him a look.

“I’m not mean.”

“You’re indifferent,” she corrected. “Which is worse, depending on the day.”

Ben exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She seemed competent.”

“More than competent. She came highly recommended.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

Leia smiled again, and this time it was warmer. “I know you will.”

By the time he reached the fourth floor again, Ben’s mind was already drifting back to patient rounds. Dax’s echo results were due back soon, and there was a questionable murmur on a different post-op kid he needed to double-check.

But instead of heading directly to the CICU, he stepped into the office next to the surgical consult room — technically not his office, but one he was known to hijack.

Poe Dameron’s name was etched on the door: Head of Pediatric Cardiothoracic Surgery.

Ben was seated in the corner chair, reviewing charts on the tablet, when the man himself walked in — coffee in hand, stethoscope slung loose around his neck, grinning like he knew something he shouldn’t.

“If you’re gonna be in here all the damn time,” Poe said, “you might as well have taken the job when your mother offered it.”

Ben didn’t even look up. “You only want me to take it so you can start your rounds at noon and flirt guilt-free for the rest of the day.”

Poe dropped into his chair dramatically. “I flirt responsibly. And only with nurses over the age of twenty-four with a sense of humor.”

Ben gave him a look. “You flirt with the vending machines if they blink too slow.”

“Guilty.” Poe leaned back, sipping his coffee. “But you’re dodging the point. She offered you Head. That title would’ve looked real nice next to yours. Dr. Ben Solo, Pediatric Cardio God, Ruler of the Fourth Floor.”

“I didn’t want the title.”

“You didn’t want the responsibility,” Poe corrected. “Or the paperwork.”

Ben shrugged.

Poe narrowed his eyes, sensing something. “What did she say?”

Ben tapped the tablet. “We’ve got a new nurse. Rey Mirage.”

Poe let out a low whistle. “Mirage? As in The Mirage Group? Those corporate titans?”

Ben nodded slowly. “Apparently.”

“Well damn.” Poe’s brows lifted. “That family practically owns half the city. Hospitals, campaigns, real estate—everywhere you turn, their name’s stamped on something.”

“She’s on our unit,” Ben added, his tone even, though there was the faintest crease between his brows.

“Oh no,” Poe said, voice mock-dramatic. “She’s doomed.”

Ben shot him a look.

“I’m kidding.” Poe grinned. “Kind of.”

Ben didn’t answer. But something sat in the back of his head like a pebble in a shoe.

That name. That face. That quiet confidence.

And something deeper he wasn’t ready to name yet.