Chapter Text
Samira Mohan lives in what she considers to be the perfect apartment.
It’s close enough to the hospital that she can commute on foot when the weather’s nice – April showers have made it so this hasn’t been possible for a week or so, but it’s still good to have the option – while also being far enough away to allow for some mental separation from her workplace.
That separation hasn’t happened yet, but again, it’s nice to know that it could.
The apartment itself is small but not cramped, a one-bed with its own tiny balcony. It’s situated in a complex of other mid-rise buildings, each one a stark monolith of about ten or so stories, not particularly attractive with their industrial concrete facades and apparent lack of individuality. But Samira’s been here long enough to have picked up on each building’s intricacies, and though she doesn’t know much about architecture, she figures it must be what draws people to brutalism – how some runaway ivy has trailed up the side of her building, the way her neighbours’ artwork displayed their balconies stands out against the sterile grey background.
Plus, the rent’s pretty decent and they allow pets with no extra charge to the deposit. A rare combination.
Though she tells people she lives alone, she shares her residence with a very fickle roommate: Cheddar, her pet cat of undetermined age and unrelenting appetite. He is probably the most interesting thing about the interior of Samira’s apartment (a fact that would certainly please him if he could understand it).
Over the years, her single-minded approach to her career has led her to inadvertently adopt something of a minimalist lifestyle, but that suits her just fine since it means there are fewer objects around for Cheddar to leave tufts of orange fur all over.
She has everything she needs. The apartment came semi-furnished, so all she needed to add was a mattress, a wardrobe from Ikea, and a loveseat she bought from someone nearby on an online marketplace, one that was dragged back to her building and into the elevator with the help of a very grumbly Trinity Santos. A few bookshelves in the living area overflow with annotated journals and well-worn textbooks, and next to them sits a study desk with absolutely no organisational system. The walls are bare save for a few framed pictures of her graduation ceremony and some mass-produced wall art that came with the place. Cheddar has his own corner, tucked in behind the dusty TV that never gets switched on, and his toys and scratching post provide a splash of colour to an apartment otherwise decorated in shades of light blues and greys.
To her, it’s perfect. She’s never been all that concerned with material things; rather, her ideal apartment is just a place that has a bed for her to sleep in, the necessary materials for making some decent coffee, and enough peace and quiet for her to read her journals before bed.
Her upstairs and next-door neighbours sometimes interfere with that last part, but broadly speaking, it’s as close as she could get to her dream living situation.
She’s musing on that fact this morning as she lazes about in her kitchen, a feeling of tranquillity setting in as she watches sunshine stream through the glass door out to her balcony. Today is her day off, a whole twenty-four hours before she has to be anywhere, and this is the first morning in a while she hasn’t woken up to the sound of rain pelting against the windowsill. She has just refilled her mug with the dregs from the coffee maker and is doing a great job at resisting the urge to check her work email. Off to a great start.
She has no obligations today but she thinks she might head out for a while anyway, even just for an hour or so. Probably a shame to waste such a lovely day. It could be nice to grab some matcha and a few groceries before tackling her overflowing laundry basket, getting some fresh air while she’s at it.
She’s trying, to varying levels of success, to buck her reputation as a workaholic slash homebody, so uses some more self-control to avoid considering her preferred option: staying in her pyjamas all day, reading journals on the couch with Cheddar perched on her lap.
No. She’s going to go out. She is going to leave her apartment today.
But first, she answers Cheddar’s meows of hungry protest, feeding him his breakfast before feeding herself – a mix of kibble and wet food for him, some wheat toast, peanut butter and banana for her. Once the meal is finished she showers, does her skincare, and puts on a pair of light wash jeans and an old band t-shirt bearing the name of some group she doesn’t think is even together anymore. She picks up the tote that still has her keys and wallet inside from work yesterday, slides her phone into her back pocket, and checks that the cat has enough water before heading out.
Action cures anxiety. Keep moving and the separation will come.
She supposes that it feels sort of nice to be going out aimlessly. She might go the long route to the café, stick her headphones in and listen to a podcast as she walks, or she could look into the nearby bookstore she’s been meaning to check out, or she could –
She’s not even halfway through drafting a list of potential activities when she turns around from locking her front door to see Dr. Jack Abbot in the hallway, standing in front of her neighbour’s apartment.
She stops. Freezes, keys still in hand. Tries to manually process the scene in front of her.
He does the same when his head turns in her direction, and it is considerably more awkward for him since he’s holding what seems to be an extremely heavy cardboard box.
He’s dressed casually, cargos and a flannel, his greying curls tidy but not overly styled, slightly more stubble on his jaw than usual, not dressed for work – obviously not, considering he’s currently in her building and not in the hospital.
A few more seconds of silence pass before he gives in to gravity, setting the box down next to her neighbour’s door before straightening up again, not breaking eye contact as he does so.
Against her better judgment, Samira is the one who speaks first.
“Dr. Abbot?” she asks.
As if she needed verbal confirmation.
“Dr. Mohan,” he responds, though his opener is more of a polite greeting than hers. Hers was more of a blurted-out question.
It’s very clear that he was not expecting to see her here either, though he is doing a far better job of retaining some semblance of composure.
Realising that, Samira tries to fix what is probably an incredibly bemused expression on her face. There’s an extremely obvious question she wants to ask, but has to be very careful how she phrases it, tread so lightly around prying into the personal life of a colleague she doesn’t know all that well.
“What – are you – do you know James, or something?”
The question sounds clumsier than she’d hoped, but there's nothing she could do about that now. It’s a start, at least.
“James?” Abbot queries, sounding the word out with no familiarity. His tone only compounds Samira’s confusion.
“My, uh, neighbour,” she clarifies, glancing at the door with 5E displayed on a shiny plaque above the peephole. Her own is 5F, right next to this one – a thin shared wall separates them, a fact which Samira discovered around the same time her neighbour took up playing the guitar.
“Ah, you mean Josh?” says Abbot, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, but there’s not much recognition in the way he says that name, either. He’s using the same tone he has when referring to a patient – professional but not overly formal, like speaking to a respected acquaintance.
“Josh. Right.”
Hazel eyes still glinting as he looks at her. “No, I don’t really know him. He moved out a month ago, so I take it you two weren’t close?”
Ah. Well, she very clearly hadn’t noticed. But as she reflects, trying to think about the last time she saw him … and it has been uncharacteristically quiet during peak guitar-strumming-time recently …
Samira just shrugs instead of delving too much into it. Her tote bag suddenly feels a lot heavier on her shoulder and she’s no closer to understanding why Dr. Abbot is standing in her hallway, carrying out some very minor interrogations as to her relationship with her neighbours. “You know, with work – unsociable hours, I mean – hard to bump into people on a regular basis.”
“Of course,” he answers, with admirable seriousness.
She nods; he returns it.
To prevent another lull in the conversation, she decides to fill the silence.
“So, you’re –”
“Moving in?” he interrupts – again, polite, as if putting her out of her misery.
Which he was, in a way. However, the temporary relief of not having to ask him what he’s actually doing here is soon supplanted by a burst of panic.
Moving in. Moving in today, presumably.
Making Abbot her new neighbour.
She glances down at the cardboard box and sees the word ‘KITCHEN’ written on the side in bold black Sharpie'd letters.
Abbot is moving in right now, today, and she has to suddenly adjust to that fact right here in this moment even though she wasn’t even expecting to get a new neighbour at all, much less a senior colleague.
Abbot. Her neighbour. In the apartment next to hers. Obviously, because the universe works that way now – she’s trying as hard as she can to separate her work and home life, so fate sends the night shift attending to her doorstep.
The issue is not that she dislikes him. Quite the contrary, in fact; he’s probably the only person in the entire ER who has never referred to her by some sort of nickname or second-guessed her work. She’s perpetually Dr. Mohan to him , even though only patients refer to her by that title these days.
Now that they’re neighbours, that will probably have to change. She imagines the conversation where she asks him to call her Samira and suddenly feels even more disoriented.
This internal spiral of thoughts means she’s gone quiet, but Abbot doesn’t seem to mind.
One of the qualities she admires about him is that he’s not quick to judgement, and she’s particularly grateful for that today. She’s probably not making an excellent neighbourly impression, standing here asking him half-questions, making a focused effort on keeping her mouth from hanging open.
“You live here too, I take it?” he offers up cordially; again, lifting some of the burden. “Or are you just visiting?”
He’s making civil, friendly conversation, which she can also do.
She is almost completely sure she can do it.
“Mhm,” and she makes a quick gesture over her shoulder to indicate her apartment, as if she hadn’t just walked right out of it. “And no, uh, nobody else there. Just me. And Cheddar, my cat.”
She’s not sure if he even asked if there were other people living with her. She genuinely cannot remember how he phrased his question. Either way, he smiles at her answer, a proper smile, one that reaches his eyes.
“Cheddar. I love it.”
“He came pre-named,” she replies too quickly.
He looks, for a second, almost upset at how she instinctively jumped to the defensive.
“No, I really do love it,” he clarifies, and she believes him immediately, though she’s not really sure why.
Though he entered this conversation comfortably, casually, it’s increasingly looking as though something is on the tip of his tongue. He shuffles slightly, going to cross his arms across his chest but deciding instead to put his hands in his pockets.
“I hope – I didn’t know you lived here, Dr. Mohan,” he says with more seriousness now, breaking eye contact for the first time. It lasts just a quick second, eyes flicking down to the floor before returning to her face, but it’s enough for her to notice it. “I hope this doesn’t make things awkward. If it does –”
“Not awkward at all,” she lies confidently.
Though, as she thinks about it, awkward probably isn’t the word she’d use at all – she doesn’t feel nearly as on edge working with Abbot as she would with other superiors. She doesn’t spend her shifts double-checking the time spent with patients, doesn’t dwell as long on tiny mistakes. Workflow with Abbot at the helm is natural, unforced. She really enjoys it, if she’s being honest with herself.
So she really doesn’t feel uncomfortable with him living here, but she does feel somewhat … self-conscious, in a weird way.
This is her sanctuary. Her own little imperfect space away from work where she can try, battle, fight tooth and nail to disconnect from it all. This would be considerably more difficult to achieve now that she’s sharing communal living spaces with a coworker.
But that’s not Abbot’s fault. It’s probably as awkward for him as it is for her, and Samira has no intention of making the situation any more unconventional for the both of them.
So, she rallies. Tries to think of what an ordinary neighbour would say in this situation.
“I’m heading out for a bit,” she starts, gesturing towards the elevator she’ll probably be sharing with him at some point in the near future, “but I'm not in a rush, so I can help with the boxes if you need an extra pair of hands?”
That seems to have been the right thing to do. Abbot smiles again, and relief floods through her.
“I’m all good, but thank you,” he answers, stepping aside to let her pass even though he’s not obstructing anyone. “There are only a few more boxes down there and I’ve bribed Shen to help out, so I think we’ve enough hands on deck, provided he’s not having any caffeine-induced palpitations trying to load them into the elevator.”
She laughs, calls out a ‘see you later!’ which he dutifully returns, walks past him at what she hopes is a reasonable speed, and makes the immediate decision to take the stairs.
One encounter with a coworker near the comfort of her own home is probably enough for the day.
No offence, Dr. Shen.
—
When she returns that evening, a nearly-empty iced matcha in hand along with a few new books she absolutely had no justification for buying, she’s not too surprised to see that neither Abbot nor his boxes are in the hallway. He travels light, after all. She didn’t think he’d be the type of person who needed movers or bring with him an entire suite of furniture, so he’s probably nearly settled in already.
Still, there’s a lot she doesn’t know about him. They’ve talked only a handful of times since PittFest, always cordial, always focused on the work in front of them. Friendly, but never too personal.
They would probably have been seeing a lot more of each other were Samira not rejecting most of the overtime offers that come her way as of late. Very out of character, but she’s doing so in a desperate attempt to follow McKay’s advice and, ideally, to avoid another adrenaline crash like the one that occurred post-PittFest. She can’t afford to do that again – professionally, personally. She’s doing everything in her power to avoid it.
The issue of her work-life balance has been raised probably hundreds of times at this point; usually coming from her mother, and it’s easier for Samira to wave away her concerns, tell her it’s fine and that residents used to work a lot longer in the past and things are much better now, which usually postpones the rest of the argument for a while.
But that night … PittFest, as to be expected, changed things. She remembers too well the feeling of the adrenaline leaving her body and momentarily taking her spirit with it, the crash making her feel like an empty shell of a person, betraying her, leaving her barely able to pull herself back together before heading back out into the fray.
It was one of the worst things she has ever felt. To the best of her ability, she’s trying to prevent a repeat.
In order to achieve this goal, she’s decided to put herself out there, clichéd as it sounds. Signed up for a book club even though she misses half of the sessions and usually dislikes the titles the group votes on. Agrees to invitations for socialising out of work, makes these impromptu trips out on her days off. She doesn’t feel the difference yet but things haven’t gotten worse, which is hopefully a good sign.
It’s not that she’s a new person, or even a particularly different person. She’s the same Samira she always was, just with a more evenly distributed schedule.
Maybe this bodes well for future interactions with Abbot, who knows? She did a good job of distracting herself on her outing just now, making a deliberate effort to enjoy her time off and hoping she'll subconsciously adjust to her new living arrangements by doing so. She took the elevator without sparing a second thought as to whether he or Shen would be inside. She walked past his apartment and felt no awkwardness.
No rush, no flicker of panic. A positive sign.
When she’s back inside her apartment, she cracks open the window by her balcony to let some air in. She gives Cheddar a quick pat on the head – he wakes from his nap on the couch, side eyes her, then lays his head back down to sleep – before she starts unpacking the books from her tote and setting them down on the coffee table.
She takes a seat next to Cheddar and thumbs through one of her books absent-mindedly, barely picking up on the pictures and diagrams displaying various ailments she hasn’t studied since first year of med school, before pausing, finger frozen on the page.
She thinks she hears something coming from outside.
Nothing bad or particularly startling, though. Whatever she’s hearing is nice, soft. Melodic.
Through the open window, she hears music softly floating through the air. It’s audible, but not loud to the point of being distracting or disruptive. Should she close the window, it would probably stifle most of it, but she finds that she doesn’t really want to. The song wafts through the air like a mist, and there’s a distinctive crackle to the sound that reminds her of a record player. She always liked records.
She gets up and makes her way out towards her balcony to investigate, thinking it must be someone throwing a small party or barbeque in the courtyard below, though April feels a bit too early for that.
She steps outside, the early evening air still balmy and mild, closing the door quickly behind her even though Cheddar has never attempted an escape via this route. Takes a seat on the battered old deck chair that she “borrowed” from her mother’s house (though all attempts to return it have been dismissed). Spends a few seconds savouring the setting sun, everything now bathed in a soft, golden light.
Listens and waits to find the source of the music, and she soon does.
Although the balconies are fenced off, through the thin metal bars she can see Abbot just a few feet away. He’s sitting out on his balcony in an old deck chair of his own, completely still. She can’t see his face so isn’t sure if he’s awake or asleep.
Samira’s chair faces straight out but Abbot’s is turned at an angle, facing the sunset. Like Samira's, his balcony is devoid of any other decoration, but at least he has the excuse of having just moved in.
She is certain by now that the music is coming from his apartment. It sounds like the blues; no lyrics, only guitar, and though she doesn't recognise the song or know the title, it feels pleasantly familiar in a way she can’t quite explain.
The inside of Abbot’s apartment isn’t visible from here but were she to hazard a guess, she’d say he has a record player placed just by the door, playing it softly enough to not disturb those on other floors.
She looks at him. Keeps looking at him.
Samira’s not sure why she stares, but she can’t stop it.
Though she can only see the back of his head, his curls are less tidy after a day of lugging and unpacking boxes. He’s dressed in a baggy grey t-shirt, and the loose neckline means she can see freckles on the nape of his neck which she had never noticed before – because when would she have had the opportunity to look at the back of Abbot’s neck? – and his arms, resting against the sides of the chair, show the hint of a recently-healed sunburn.
He must spend more time outside than she would have thought. Maybe he has some outdoorsy hobby – he’s an emergency medicine doctor, so she’d put good money on hiking or cycling or some other type of activity that Langdon would wax lyrical about in between his second and third Red Bull of the morning.
Plenty of options, no solid guesses yet.
“Hi, Dr. Mohan.”
Samira is startled at the mention of her name, physically jolting in the chair.
How did he know she was there?
She didn't think she was particularly loud when coming out here, and even if Abbot wasn’t asleep, she didn’t think he would see her from the angle he’s sitting at.
His peripheral perception must be so good that it’s a little frightening.
“Uh, hi,” she responds as soon as she can muster some steady words, before tacking on a, “Dr. Abbot,” for good measure.
He’s not the type to care about titles, but Samira wants to use it until she’s asked to do otherwise. It’s neater like this, less complicated.
He doesn’t shift in his chair but Samira is nonetheless acutely aware of the fact that she is still staring at the back of his head.
“Is the music too loud?” he asks then, not accusatory, genuinely concerned that it’s disrupting her evening.
“No, it’s nice,” she admits, finally breaking away from looking at him, instead looking down at her hands resting against her thighs. She fidgets with one of her rings on her right hand. “I just wanted to see where it was coming from. Sorry for interrupting your nap.”
“You didn’t,” he answers, not sounding particularly tired. Moves his chair finally – facing straight out, like hers, but it’s enough that they can glance at each other. “I wasn’t asleep, don’t worry. Just enjoying the first bit of sun we’ve gotten all month, from my own balcony. The luxury is hard to comprehend.”
“Biggest perk of this building,” Samira says, welcoming the common ground. “Some of the newer places in the complex don’t have balconies at all, but this one has some minor historical status placed on it, so they’re limited to the renovations they can make. Otherwise they’d have tried to squeeze another few apartments on every floor.”
“Good to know,” Abbot answers, and again, Samira thinks he’s being earnest. She stops fidgeting with her ring and tries to focus on the conversation.
“You settling in okay?” she asks him. Means it, too.
“Yeah, thanks. Managed to get everything unloaded and unpacked without breaking my portable ultrasound in the process, so now I owe Shen his daily Dunkin for the rest of the week.”
“Tough deal.”
“Yeah, it’ll be a struggle making rent this month.”
She smiles, already finding this easier. Maybe talking with Abbot is like working with him – no need for overthinking, no need to overanalyse every choice. Just go with the flow. Trust your instincts.
“Was it a big move?” she pipes up then, realising she has no idea where he was living before this. She hopes it’s a safe topic.
“Not really, but an unexpected one.” A two-second pause. “Only got the notice last week, but it was a … sensitive situation, so figured it best to be out as soon as possible.”
Samira doesn’t dwell on the ramifications of saying, “I hope everything’s okay.”
She registers Abbot glancing at her before averting his gaze back out to the sunset.
“It will be, I'm sure. My old place – the owner died a couple weeks ago, and his son decided to sell. Don’t blame him, really. He’s not doing it to kick me out, just wants a fresh start.”
A nice concept, Samira thinks. Something pops into her mind.
“So you’re getting one too?” she asks, feeling momentarily stunned that the words came out without her thinking them through first.
She lets her eyes wander through the metal bars; Abbot meets her with a smile.
“Guess I am.”
—
They spend about an hour or so talking about nothing in particular. Neighbourhood stuff, mostly – the best café, cheapest supermarket, nearest defibrillator – and some casual discussion about work.
Not the medicine, though, for once. They instead chat about the people.
They talk about how one of Dana’s kids is back from college for the summer, but they don’t discuss the pending court case with Doug Driscoll.
They talk about Collins’ impending promotion, but make no mention of the fact that they haven’t seen Langdon since PittFest.
They talk about Myrna finally being discharged, but they choose not to address the various patients who have since taken her spot in beds.
It’s safe, Samira thinks. To talk about the people and not the work.
It’s only when she hears Cheddar’s meows from the still-open window that she realises how late it’s gotten. To his credit, it’s well past his usual dinner time, so she can’t even blame him for objecting.
She glances at her watch – considerably later than she expected, and she still has to prep for her shift tomorrow.
The sun has also fully set without her even realising, the apartment complex below them now illuminated artificially.
She starts to explain her impending departure but once the word ‘ work’ leaves her lips, she knows he understands.
They say their goodbyes and she heads back inside, feeling a strange sort of disappointment when she hears the record player scratch to a stop a few minutes later.
—
They don’t see each other for another three days after that, and when they do, it’s not in their shared hallway.
Samira’s back in her scrubs, crouching over the nurses’ station, nearly through her pile of signoffs. It’s closer to nine at night than her scheduled clockout time of seven, but time slips by so easily in this job that she rarely makes the effort to strictly adhere to her rostered hours. She starts and then she finishes when the work’s done.
This is the first lull they’ve had all day – mostly because the night shift has now taken the reins – so she’s seizing the opportunity to catch up on paperwork, and as she’s writing, she senses someone approaching the station from over her shoulder.
She doesn’t look up right away, figuring that if the person is looking for her, they’ll let her know.
And he does.
“Can I ask a very boring question?” Abbot asks, appearing much livelier than Samira since he’s only two hours into his shift. His dark scrubs are neat and freshly laundered; hers are too, but only because she had to change them an hour ago when she skidded in the contents of a banana bag that Whittaker accidentally burst. “When you get a second, of course.”
“My favourite kind,” she answers back, only half-joking. She completes her signature on the last form and lets the pen drop against the paper, wrist aching.
When she turns to face Abbot, his question doesn’t come for another second or so, a nearly imperceptible delay.
“What time does the mailroom open?” he asks after blinking a bit too forcefully. “At our – at the complex. Or is there even a mailroom? Is it just a guy who signs for the parcels? I have a package that’s listed as delivered but … alas.” He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Just a guy,” she affirms, sympathy suddenly leaching into her voice. “Ron, the building manager, he usually signs for things. He has a closet in the lobby he keeps mail in – not the most high-tech approach, and it’s pretty difficult to get him to answer the phone to come unlock it since he doesn’t really stick to any business hours. And he has a habit of interrogating you on what you’re getting delivered. He's kind of a strange guy.” She pauses, letting the bad news sink in. “I usually get things sent to a PO box instead.”
Abbot grimaces. “Good to know, thank you. I will be setting one of those up, since I don’t really want to bother Ron any more than I need to.”
“Very wise,” Samira notes, “especially since he doesn’t know you, he has a whole folder of invasive questions to ask, I’m sure.”
Abbot chuckles, and Samira thinks they’re at the natural end to the conversation, but she sees something dawn over him, making his smile falter. He looks somewhat perturbed by whatever he’s just realised, brows furrowing.
“I should’ve waited until I ran into you in the hallway to ask that,” he says, a little embarrassment buried in the words. “You mightn’t want to talk about this stuff at work.”
His reaction is oddly endearing since she’s never seen anything close to embarrassment from an attending.
Also, Samira doesn’t particularly mind the question. She finds socialising at work considerably easier than outside of it, even though she’s really only made friends here in the last two months. She’s more authentically herself at work, has a channel for all of her energy, feels grounded by a sense of purpose. She’d far prefer a personal question at work than a work question being asked out on their balconies.
Plus, she’s already scanned their surroundings so knows nobody overheard. Princess and Langdon aren’t here (though she wasn't expecting to see the latter), and Perlah’s occupied with a patient in Bed 3, so the primary sources of any potential gossip are nowhere to be seen.
Moreover, there’s nothing incriminating about them being neighbours. Even if they walk in together, even if someone overhears them talk about their living arrangements, it is easily explained.
But now that he brought it up, she might as well address the one outstanding issue that’s been troubling her.
“I don’t mind talking about stuff like this, genuinely,” she reassures him, “Questions about the mailroom and stuff don’t bother me at all. The only thing I have trouble with – and this has nothing to do with you, of course,” and she cringes internally at her choice of words, hoping they don’t highlight the fact that this does actually concern him, just a little, “-- is keeping the two separate. Work and home. I’ve been trying to shut off recently – not fully, of course, I’m still doing supplementary reading, catching up on reports, things like that – but I just try to leave the heavier stuff here, or …” Or in her therapist’s office, but he doesn’t need to know that. “...yeah.”
Not the strongest finish, but she said her piece.
Maybe this was awkward and forthright and not very neighbourly, but she feels that an honest answer from her might put some of his worries to rest.
Thankfully, it does just that.
“I get it,” he responds, looking even more relieved than she anticipated. “Absolutely, nothing wrong with a boundary – keeps things … neater, I suppose.”
She smiles. On that, they can certainly agree.
Optimism brews in her mind and she starts to entertain the thought that this actually might be fine.
It could be nice, actually, to have someone in the building whom she knows, a door to knock on when she needs to borrow coffee or someone to buzz in a repairman for her without alerting Ron.
And, as it turns out, Abbot isn’t done talking.
“We can be colleagues here, but don’t have to be doctors outside of this place,” his words lighthearted but still spoken carefully. “We can be Jack and Samira. Neighbours.”
The sound of her name as it leaves his lips is alarmingly nice to hear. She’s so focused on how much she likes it that she doesn’t even dwell on the fact that it’s the first time he’s ever said it.
Now that it’s out there, it doesn’t seem so daunting.
“Okay,” Samira agrees, feels a rush of achievement, like she’s closer to some goal she hasn’t quite identified yet.
“Excellent,” Abbot’s voice has its own hint of enthusiasm in it, “I can reintroduce myself, if you like?”
She can’t help the smile that returns to her face. It’s cheesy, sure, but she can’t dismiss the idea that this could help with the separation.
Jack, at home. Dr. Abbot, here.
He extends his hand, and she takes it. His grip is strong but doesn’t come close to hurting.
“Jack Abbot. I live in 5E – no pets, no kids. Moved in earlier this week. Fair warning that I’m ninety per cent nocturnal, but pretty quiet, I promise. And I only play music on the balcony when it’s sunny out, and this being Pittsburgh, you probably won’t hear it again for another two months.”
Samira’s grin stays put, her cheeks starting to ache.
Her turn to reintroduce herself.
“Samira Mohan, 5F. Lived there for two – actually, three years now. One cat, but the only time you’ll hear him is immediately before he gets fed. I’m diurnal, mostly, but it depends on the week. No loud music or parties on my end, either.”
They break away, satisfied with this verbal contract they’ve concocted. They hear Abbot’s name get called out from across the floor and he instinctively fixes the stethoscope around his neck, clearly about to be whisked off to some other task, but before he does, he says one last thing – quiet, audible only to her.
“Nice to meet you, Samira.”
And in her relentless pursuit of balance, she decides to meet him there.
“You too, Jack.”