Page 10 of Outbreak Protocol

"That's not exactly what I meant," I laugh. "I was thinking more along the lines of getting our minds off the negativity for a few hours. There's a quiet restaurant about ten minutes from here—nothing fancy, but they do excellent fish and the atmosphere is calming."

Sarah raises an eyebrow smirking. "Felix is asking you to dinner, Erik."

The suggestion hangs in the air between us. Erik's fingers move to his hair, that unconscious gesture I've come to realize he uses when he's processing unexpected information.

"I suppose a proper meal would be beneficial," he says carefully. "And discussing the case in a different environment might provide new perspectives."

"Great. Give me twenty minutes to finish my patient notes and we can head out. "

As I complete my documentation, I catch Yuki and Aleksandr exchanging glances with Sarah. The team dynamic has been forming all day—professional collaboration deepening into genuine camaraderie despite the crisis circumstances.

"Felix seems good for Erik," Sarah murmurs to Yuki, probably thinking I can't hear. "I've never seen him this engaged with anyone outside pure data analysis."

The observation makes me pause. Erik does seem different than the first time I met him. When we're working together—more present, more willing to consider perspectives beyond epidemiological models. And I find myself drawn to his analytical mind in ways that surprise me.

Twenty-five minutes later, we're walking through Hamburg's early evening streets toward Fischmarkt Stube, a small restaurant tucked between maritime supply shops and shipping offices. The evening air carries salt from the harbour mixed with cooking aromas from nearby restaurants.

"Your jacket," Erik says, noticing me shiver slightly in the cool breeze. Before I can protest, he's draping his perfectly pressed blazer over my shoulders.

The gesture is unexpected and intimate. His jacket retains warmth from his body and carries a subtle scent—clean soap and something distinctly masculine that makes me acutely aware of his physical presence.

"Thank you," I manage, pulling the jacket closer. "Though now you'll be cold."

"I run warm," he says simply, but I notice how his shirt sleeves reveal strong forearms and elegant hands that somehow look capable of both precise data entry and more physical tasks.

Fischmarkt Stube proves to be exactly what we both need—dim lighting, quiet conversation, and tables far enough apart to ensure privacy. The owner, a weathered man in his sixties, seats us at a corner table near windows overlooking the harbour.

"No shop talk," I announce as we settle into our chairs. "We need to remember there's a world beyond outbreak investigation."

Erik's expression shows mild panic. "I'm not particularly skilled at non-professional conversation."

"Neither am I, apparently. Emergency medicine doesn't leave much time for social interaction outside work."

We order wine—a crisp Riesling that Erik selects with surprising knowledge of German vintages—and study our menus in companionable silence. The restaurant's atmosphere gradually works its intended magic; tension eases from Erik's shoulders and I feel my own hypervigilance beginning to relax.

"So what do you do when you're not saving lives or investigating disease outbreaks?" I ask.

"I read epidemiological journals," Erik replies, then catches my expression. "That's probably not what you meant."

"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.

"Felix," Erik says, and the way he speaks my name carries weight that wasn't there this morning. "Today has been educational in ways I didn't anticipate. "

"For me too."

We stand closer than professional distance requires, and I'm acutely aware of his height, the way the streetlight catches those pale blue eyes, the fact that I'm still wearing his jacket and neither of us has mentioned returning it.

"We have early interviews tomorrow," Erik says, but doesn't move to leave.

"Six AM with the port authority workers."

"Perhaps we could continue this conversation. After the outbreak is contained."

"I'd like that."

The words hang between us, an acknowledgment of mutual attraction carefully contained within professional boundaries. We're not ready to cross those lines, not while investigating a potential epidemic, but the possibility exists now in ways it didn't this morning.

Erik reaches out as if to touch my hand, then catches himself, the gesture transforming into adjusting his tablet bag.

"Good night, Felix."

"Good night, Erik."

I watch him walk away, his tall figure disappearing around the corner toward his hotel. The evening feels different somehow—warmer despite the cool air, full of potential despite the crisis we're investigating.

Back in my apartment, I hang Erik's jacket carefully in my closet, noting how it still carries his scent.

Tomorrow we'll return to outbreak investigation, contact tracing, and the urgent work of containing whatever pathogen is spreading through Hamburg.

But tonight, for the first time in months, I fall asleep thinking about something other than emergency medicine.

About someone, actually. About pale blue eyes that learn to see individuals behind statistics, and the unexpected discovery that analytical minds and empathetic hearts can complement each other perfectly.