3. Karla
KARLA
Ipaused at the edge of the parking lot, breathed in air that tasted like metal and morning, and pulled out my phone.
Streetlights blinked off one by one, and the sky had that bruised lavender look it wears right before sunrise.
I scrolled until I found Brayden Cox, the contact I’d added during those long, bright hours that never feel like night in an ICU.
My thumbs hovered for a second—nurses are taught to be precise, even in little things—then I typed:
Just letting you know, your sister did great overnight. I gave your number to the day nurse and will check in later to see how you two are doing. Take care – Karla.
I stared at the message long enough to watch the dots disappear and reappear, like I could will peace straight through the screen.
The dashboard clock would call it early—half past seven—but I’d rather he wake up to something than to silence and a stomach full of panic.
Sometimes reassurance is a bridge between sheer terror.
The short drive home was a blur, the kind where the city feels like it’s whispering instead of talking.
Night shift always leaves the world a little gauzy, like you’re half under water.
Nurses joke about it—how the walk from the hospital to your car can feel longer than the twelve hours you just worked—but there’s truth there.
They say tired driving is as dangerous as drunk driving.
I believe it. I blew warm air onto my freezing fingers, whispered, “Almost there,” to the empty car, and turned down our street.
“Hey, handsome,” I called as I nudged the apartment door open with my hip.
Keys clinked into the ceramic dish on the entry table, the one shaped like a seashell I’d found at a yard sale and insisted had “good energy.” The apartment smelled like fresh coffee and laundry detergent, a scent that hits the tired part of your soul and says you’re safe now.
Nike and Thor—our miniature Pinschers with big-dog delusions—shot toward me, toenails skittering on the hardwood. They sprang up and down in chaotic harmony, making those ridiculous little gremlin chirps they save for when I’ve been gone all night.
“Okay, okay!” I giggled, scooping them up and pressing my cheek into warm fur.
“I missed you, too.” Nike’s ears were soft like velvet; Thor’s tail wagged so hard he drummed my rib cage.
It wasn’t ideal to reward bad manners with an immediate cuddle, but being a disciplinarian at the end of a night shift is a fantasy I never manage to live.
James had his work boots propped on the coffee table, flipping between news channels the way he always did, searching for headlines about construction deadlines and weather the way hockey fans track standings. He looked up and grinned, that easy, crooked smile I’d fallen for long ago.
“Hey, sexy pants! How was work?” He stood from the gray corduroy loveseat and stretched, broad shoulders rolling under a worn T-shirt. “Want some eggs?”
I knew I was supposed to want breakfast—it was officially morning—but my body was already halfway to bed.
“When are you heading to the jobsite?” I dodged gently, stepping out of my sneakers and setting the dogs down.
Their tails became metronomes, synchronized to the crinkling sound of dog-food bags they imagined they heard.
James came up behind me and set his hands on my shoulders, thumbs kneading the knots that had formed somewhere around hour nine.
His eyes are ice blue, but not cold—clear, steadying.
When he looks at me like that, something unclenches inside.
“I don’t have to be in for a few hours,” he murmured, voice low against my hair.
“Go soak. I’ll make food. Then I’ll get out of your way so you can sleep off that pesky night shift of yours. ”
How did I get this lucky? The thought bloomed without permission.
On my tiptoes, I kissed his stubbly cheek. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?” I asked with a smile, already drifting toward the hallway like a moth to the only lamp that matters—my bath.
“Yes,” he snickered, smacking my butt with affectionate mischief as he set the pups down by their bowls. “But it’s always nice to hear.” Kibble rattled into porcelain, and two tiny tornadoes settled into very serious breakfast mode.
I shut the lavender bathroom door behind me and exhaled.
James calls this space my “lady cave,” which should annoy me but doesn’t.
The walls are the softest purple, the towels stacked like little hotel clouds, the mirror framed in whitewashed wood.
When we moved in, the lease may as well have said “Roman tub included”—it was the entire reason I signed on the dotted line.
ICU nurses measure joy in cups of coffee, stiff whiskey and deep baths.
I turned the taps and watched steam curl up in lazy spirals.
A bright blue bath bomb plopped into the water and blossomed into galaxies—sapphire, turquoise, a kiss of glitter.
The scent—lilac with a cool mint undertow—unspooled my spine.
I slipped in, murmuring softly at first contact, then sinking until the water clasped my shoulders like a warm hand.
Every ache in my calves and lower back waved a white flag.
My phone buzzed against the porcelain lip. “Thank goodness for waterproof cases,” I told the air, half-laughing at myself as I reached for it. A tiny part of me feared a callback from the charge nurse—Can you pick up tonight?—but the notification was a simple text.
Brayden: Thank you for letting me know. I am heading that way now. Hope you get some rest after a long night shift.
I smiled before I could stop it, eyes fluttering closed.
Relief looks different on everyone. For some it’s a sob; for others it’s the steadying of hands.
For me, it’s that tiny, private smile when a message says—she’s not alone, and neither are you.
This is why I became a nurse—to be a bridge for people in the dark.
I let myself float for a few more minutes, tracing lazy circles on the water’s surface.
When you sit with someone else’s fear all night, your own thoughts arrive softer, like they’re afraid to make noise.
I pictured Myla’s dark lashes against her cheeks, the way her fingers twitched like she was holding something in a dream.
I pictured Brayden’s jaw, tense with sleepless worry, and hoped he had someone to hand him a cup of coffee and tell him to breathe.
“Breakfast in bed is served, my lady,” James called from the bedroom, voice warm through the door.
The grin was automatic. “Be right out!”
Leaving a hot bath always feels like betrayal.
I rose reluctantly, water folding away from my skin, and grabbed a towel.
The apartment’s cool air raised goosebumps instantly, and I hopped across the cold tile like it was lava until my toes found the sanctuary of the shaggy gray bathmat.
I cocooned myself in my fluffy pink robe—yes, it’s a Victoria’s Secret relic; no, I’m not embarrassed—and twisted my hair into a towel knot that always falls apart at the worst possible time.
James had already arranged two trays on the bed like we were starring in a tiny hotel commercial—eggs, bacon, home fries, and—because he knows my heart—an icy Diet Dr Pepper.
Breakfast of champions and nurses who become human soda fountains after twelve-hour shifts.
I dove under the comforter and let him curve an arm around me in that way that makes the world shrink to a room, a bed, and the soft thud of two dogs wrestling over a toy at the footboard.
“Thank you,” I whispered, kissing his cheek again before he drowned his eggs in Tabasco like they’d wronged him in another life.
“Anything for you, babe,” he cooed, winking.
The red cap gave that satisfying twist-pssst and the carbonation fizz sang up into my nose.
I’ve been hooked since college—my least expensive vice and possibly my sweetest. We ate in companionable silence at first, that sacred post-shift quiet when food is medicine and conversation is optional.
Then the words came in little pieces. I told him about my night—the older lady down the hall who needed her pain management doctor on speed dial, the new resident who triple-knotted an IV line like a shoelace, the way the ICU can be both loud and reverent at the same time.
“And the young girl from the wreck?” he asked gently. “How was she doing when you were leaving?”
“Myla, her name is Myla. Stable,” I said.
“She did well. Her vitals are steady.” The words lingered between us, the way names do when you’ve said them enough to make them feel personal.
I didn’t add the rest—that sometimes I carry patients home in my head and have to tuck them in next to the anxiety I pretend I don’t have. He already knows.
“Damn,” he murmured, sympathy creasing his forehead.
“That really does suck.” He slid off the bed and gathered our trays, because he’s a good man about dishes even when work is calling.
I trailed him with an empty coffee mug, and we moved around each other in that practiced dance couples learn without noticing—him rinsing, me drying, dogs hoping something drops.
James checked his watch and blew out a breath. “All right. I’ve gotta run, or the guys’ll be standing around with their thumbs up their asses.”
“Oh, the life of the boss,” I teased, stepping forward to loop my arms around his waist. His shirt smelled like fresh cotton and sawdust, comfort scents I’d wear behind my ears if I could. “Have a good day.”
He kissed my forehead, a quick press. “You too, nurse lady. Sleep. Door locked. Phone on loud for family and quiet for everyone else, okay?”
“Okay,” I promised, which is the same thing I always say even when I forget and leave it on vibrate under a pillow.
Nike and Thor escorted him to the door like tiny security detail, then trotted back to leap onto the bed and stake out their spots.
I crawled between them, turned my phone face down except for the ICU’s number, and exhaled into the cotton coolness of my pillowcase.
Sleep arrived in soft waves, the kind that pull at your ankles and whisper you did enough for today.
As I drifted, one last thought floated up and settled—this is how mornings sometimes save us—not with big revelations, but with small mercies.
A safe drive home. A steaming bath. A text that says she’s okay.
A plate of eggs. A kiss at the door. The quiet promise that, for a few hours at least, the world can be fine.
I closed my eyes. Somewhere in the city, a brother was hurrying through hospital doors.
Somewhere in the ICU, a girl was breathing steady.
In our little apartment, two dogs sighed the contented laments of small kings.
And in the space between all of us, a thread I could almost feel—thin, bright, and stubborn—held.
I finally slept.