Taste of Heaven (Amelia Shepherd X Reader)

Chapter 18: Growing Pains

The crisp morning air greeted Y/N as they stepped out of their car and made their way toward the towering structure of Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital. The autumn leaves, scattered across the parking lot, crunched under their shoes, painting the ground with rich shades of orange and gold. The hospital loomed ahead, its sleek, glass exterior reflecting the pale, early morning sun. As Y/N walked closer, the automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, releasing the familiar scent of antiseptic and coffee into the air.

Inside, the hospital was already buzzing with life-nurses moving swiftly between stations, doctors gathered in hushed conversation over patient charts, and interns scrambling to keep up. The hum of activity was punctuated by the occasional beeping of machines and the soft murmur of conversations.

Y/N navigated the familiar halls with a practiced ease, the weight of their upcoming day settling in. After their conversation with Amalia the day before, they felt a strange mix of excitement and uncertainty. The attraction between them was no longer unspoken, and it had changed something in the way Y/N moved through the hospital, as if every encounter with Amalia now carried the potential for more than just a professional exchange.

The psych ward was tucked away on the quieter side of the hospital, away from the constant chaos of the ER and surgical wings. The walls here were painted in calming shades of blue and green, an intentional choice to ease the tension that often hung heavy in the air. Y/N's footsteps echoed softly against the linoleum floor as they approached their office, the door already ajar. Inside, their desk was cluttered with patient files, the morning sun filtering through the blinds, casting thin stripes of light across the papers.

Before Y/N could settle in, their pager buzzed-a consult in the surgical ward. They grabbed their coat and headed out, feeling the cool metal of the badge clipped to their chest as they walked briskly down the hall. The surgical wing was a stark contrast to the quiet calm of the psych ward-bright, sterile, and alive with urgency.

As Y/N stepped off the elevator, the scent of fresh coffee greeted them again, mingling with the sharp, clinical smell of disinfectant. The surgical wing had its own energy, fast-paced and unrelenting. The wide hallways were lined with patients in gurneys being wheeled to and from surgeries, doctors discussing case plans in clipped, efficient tones, and nurses hurrying past with trays of instruments. The walls were a pristine white, the floors polished to a shine that reflected the overhead lights.

Y/N spotted Amalia near one of the ORs, deep in conversation with another surgeon. She looked striking in her navy scrubs, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, accentuating her sharp jawline and intense gaze. Even from a distance, Y/N could see the focused determination in her eyes-the look of someone completely in control of the situation at hand. But when Amalia noticed Y/N approaching, her expression softened just a fraction, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared conversation lingering in the space between them.

The soft fluorescent lighting above cast a pale glow across Amalia's features, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbones. She turned back to the other surgeon, finishing their conversation before walking over to Y/N.

"You made it," she said, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of something more personal now. There was a brief flicker of that same tension between them, the kind that had been simmering since their conversation the previous day. But here, in the hospital's sterile halls, it felt more controlled, as if they were both acutely aware of the lines they had to walk.

"I got your page," Y/N replied, offering a small smile as they fell into step beside Amalia. The two walked down the corridor, their footsteps in sync as they headed toward the surgical bay.

As they walked, Y/N stole glances at Amalia, noticing details they hadn't fully appreciated before-the way her eyes scanned everything, taking in the smallest details, the way she carried herself with a confident, almost regal grace. The romantic tension between them hung in the air, unspoken but palpable, as if it had woven itself into the very fabric of the hospital around them.

They reached the patient's room, where a group of interns huddled by the door, scribbling notes on their clipboards. The interns' eyes darted between Y/N and Amalia, curiosity evident on their faces, though none of them said anything. They were there to observe, to learn, but Y/N could feel the silent questions lurking in their gazes.

Inside, the patient lay on the bed, a middle-aged man recovering from neurosurgery. His face was pale, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead as he shifted uncomfortably. Machines beeped softly in the background, monitoring his vitals.

Amalia approached the patient's bedside with the same commanding presence she always had. "Mr. Davidson, I'm Dr. Shepherd. How are you feeling today?" she asked, her voice calm and reassuring.

The patient groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open. "It hurts... my head... it won't stop."

Y/N stepped closer, observing the way Amalia's hand rested gently on the man's arm, offering a touch of comfort. "The pain is likely from the swelling," Y/N said, their voice calm as they addressed both Amalia and the patient. "It's normal after a procedure like this. But we need to rule out any psychological factors that might be amplifying it."

Amalia nodded, giving Y/N space to work. "Y/N's here to help with that," she explained to the patient. "We want to make sure there's nothing else contributing to your discomfort."

As Y/N assessed the patient, their attention drifted momentarily to Amalia. The room felt smaller with her in it, the tension between them amplifying the usual intensity of the job. The sterile environment-bright lights, cold metal instruments-did little to soften the chemistry that seemed to build whenever they were near each other.

Y/N spoke to the patient in gentle, soothing tones, asking questions about his mental state, his emotional responses to the pain, and his history with trauma. They moved through the consult with practiced ease, though they were hyper-aware of Amalia's presence, her eyes watching their every move.

The interns stood by, dutifully observing the exchange, their pens scratching across their notepads as they documented the interaction. They remained silent, but Y/N could feel their curiosity-about the case, about Y/N and Amalia. They were, after all, the new psychiatrist and the renowned neurosurgeon, both well-regarded in their fields and now working together in a way that seemed to intrigue the younger doctors.

Once the consult was over and the patient had been given an updated treatment plan, Y/N and Amalia stepped out into the hall. The interns dispersed, heading back to their duties, leaving Y/N and Amalia alone for the moment.

"I think we're on the right track with Mr. Davidson," Y/N said, their voice low as they looked up at Amalia. "But we should keep an eye on him. If the psychological aspect is making the pain worse, we'll need to adjust his treatment."

Amalia nodded, her eyes softening as she met Y/N's gaze. "Thanks for coming so quickly," she said, her voice sincere. "I always feel better knowing you're on the case."

Y/N felt a warmth spread through them at her words, a quiet understanding passing between them. It was more than just professional respect now-there was something deeper, a connection that neither of them could deny.

As they stood there in the bright, sterile hallway, surrounded by the constant hum of hospital life, Y/N couldn't help but feel like they had crossed a line, one that couldn't be uncrossed. The tension between them was still there, but now it felt like something more-something they were both starting to embrace.

"I feel the same way," Y/N replied softly, their eyes lingering on Amalia's for a moment longer than necessary.

And with that, they both turned to head in opposite directions, the charged atmosphere lingering in the air, following them like a shadow as they returned to their respective duties.