Page 18 of Outbreak Protocol
"Try again."
He considers this seriously, as if non-professional interests require careful analysis. "I enjoy hiking, particularly in winter when the trails are empty. There's something appealing about solitary movement through unchanged landscapes."
"That sounds peaceful. And solitary."
"Solitude is comfortable. Predictable."
The admission reveals more than he probably intended. Erik's emotional walls are high and carefully maintained, but there are glimpses of the person behind the professional facade. Before I can stop myself, I reach across the table and place my hand over his where it rests beside his wine glass. The touch is light, intended as simple reassurance.
"Well," I say softly, "I'm glad you're not solitary tonight."
His gaze drops to our hands, his long, elegant fingers still beneath mine. A muscle flickers in his jaw. For a moment, I think he will pull away, but instead, he turns his hand over, his fingers brushing against my palm in a fleeting, questioning gesture before he withdraws to pick up his glass. It wasn't a rejection. It was... an acknowledgment.
"I rock climb," I offer. "Indoor walls mostly, but outdoor climbing when I can get away from the hospital. There's something about problem-solving with your whole body that emergency medicine never quite provides."
"That requires significant trust in equipment and safety systems."
"And partners. Climbing is ultimately about trusting someone else with your life."
Erik nods thoughtfully, and I wonder if he's ever trusted anyone that completely.
Our meals arrive—perfectly prepared fish that reminds us both why we chose this particular restaurant. The conversation flows more easily than either of us expected, touching on travel (Erik's methodical visits to epidemiological research centres versus my impulsive weekend trips), books (we share an unexpected love of mystery novels), and the strange satisfaction of working night shifts when the world feels different.
"I have a confession," Erik says as we share a dessert of traditional apple strudel. "I was dreading this dinner."
"Thanks for the honesty."
"Not because of the company," he adds quickly, colour rising in his cheeks. "Because I'm not skilled at personal interaction. Professional relationships have clear boundaries and expectations. This feels more complicated."
"Complicated how?"
He meets my eyes directly. "Because I find myself wanting to know you beyond your epidemiological insights and clinical expertise."
The admission creates a shift in the atmosphere between us. We're no longer just colleagues sharing a meal to decompress from crisis work. This has become something more personal, more intimate.
"I've been wondering the same thing," I admit. "You're not what I expected from an ECDC researcher."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more bureaucratic, I suppose. Less willing to see patients as individuals rather than data points. But you've been learning to do that all day."
"You've been teaching me to do that all day," Erik corrects. "Your approach to the families we interviewed—you see the human story behind every case number."
We finish our wine as the restaurant gradually empties around us. The conversation becomes easier, more natural, punctuated by moments of genuine laughter that transform Erik's serious features into something warmer and more approachable.
"We should probably head back," I finally say, though neither of us moves to leave.
"Probably."
But we sit for another twenty minutes, talking about nothing and everything—the strange intimacy that develops between colleagues working intense cases together, the way crisis strips away social pretenses, the unexpected discovery that we both prefer early morning hours when the world feels quieter and more manageable.
When we finally step back onto Hamburg's evening streets, the conversation continues naturally. The harbour lights reflect on wet pavement and the air carries sound differently in the darkness—distant ship horns, laughter from other restaurants, the soft rhythm of our footsteps on cobblestones.
"Thank you for this," Erik says as we walk slowly back toward the hospital. "I needed the reminder that life continues beyond outbreak investigation."
"So did I. Emergency medicine can consume everything if you let it."
We pause at a corner where our paths would normally diverge—Erik returning to the hotel where the ECDC team is staying, me to my apartment just a few blocks further.
