Anya
By the time the night finally released its hold on the hospital, everything felt washed thin and pale, as if the world had been scrubbed down to its essentials and left to dry.
Morning light slipped in through the tall windows in narrow bands, catching on the scuffed linoleum and stainless steel, making the place look gentler than it ever felt at three in the morning.
The worst of it was over. That didn’t mean it was gone.
I was charting because it gave my hands something to do. Because if I stopped, if I let myself sit too still, my mind would wander right back to the trauma bay — to blood on the floor, to his voice cutting through the room, to the way yes, sir had left my mouth before I could catch it.
I looked up.
Desmond stood a few feet away, coat already thrown on over bloodied scrubs as if he’d stopped caring about appearances sometime around dawn.
His conference badge clipped neatly to his pocket, as a quiet reminder that he was already halfway elsewhere.
He looked tired in a way that felt private — edges softened, guard lowered just enough to make my chest ache at the sight of it.
“Come eat with me,” he said.
It wasn’t a command. Something careful, held out like he wasn’t sure whether I’d take it. “I don’t have much time,” he added. “And I don’t want to leave without… this.”
The word went unspoken, but it filled the space between us, anyway.
“I forgot about the conference…” I murmured, pulling my coat a little tighter around myself.
Desmond had been chosen from the hospital’s attendings to present data at a conference about two hours away.
It was a tremendous honor, and I was proud of him.
But the idea of him leaving after the night we just had made me sick to my stomach.
The cafeteria was mostly empty, populated by night-shift holdovers and the low hum of a place that hadn’t fully woken up yet.
The lights were dimmer than they’d be in an hour, forgiving in a way the trauma bay never was.
He set a tray down in front of me — eggs gone lukewarm, toast, an orange, peeled just enough to show he’d thought about it.
“I know you don’t eat after hard nights,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to.”
I sat. I ate. The food tasted like nothing, really. But the act of eating was grounding, something solid anchoring back to my body after a hellish night.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn’t sharp. It was intentional and heavy, as if we were both circling the same truth from different angles, careful not to spook it. Finally, he set his fork aside. “What I said in the bay was right,” he said. “And I wouldn’t take it back.”
I nodded, fingers working at the orange peel, avoiding his gentle gaze for as long as I could.
“But the way I said it,” he continued, voice lower now, steadier, “wasn’t about teaching. It was about fear. And I let that land on you.”
That made me look up. His gaze held mine, open and unguarded in a way that felt dangerous. He wasn’t trying to justify himself. He wasn’t softening the edges. He was just standing in it.
“You weren’t careless,” he said. “You were confident. And I should have trusted that instead of snapping at it.”
The memory surged anyway — the stillness of the room, the heat in my face, the way I’d folded in on myself without meaning to. “I didn’t need you to be gentler,” I said. “I needed you not to make me feel small.”
His jaw flexed once. “Understood.”
Another pause. This one was different. Warmer. Charged.
“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly but firmly. “I should’ve said that first.” Something inside me loosened. Pride from Desmond wasn’t casual — it carried weight. It meant he’d been watching. It meant he’d seen me, really seen me, even when everything else had gone sideways.
Outside the windows, the sky had fully committed to morning. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed. Life went on, indifferent and relentless. “I leave today,” he said. “I don’t want distance to turn this into something colder than it already is.”
I studied him — this brilliant, infuriating man who had a habit of standing too close and saying exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time… and then doing the work to make it right. “It’s not cold,” I said. “It’s just… bruised.”
His mouth curved, slow and deliberate this time. A real smile, softened at the edges. “Good,” he said. “I don’t do well in the cold.” He stood, slinging his coat over his arm, then hesitated — just a beat too long. “Breakfast again,” he said. “When I’m back.”
I raised a brow. “Are you assuming I’ll still be here?”
His eyes flicked over me, warm and assessing, as if he already knew the answer. “I’m hoping you might even get impatient.”
My pulse jumped. “Careful,” I said. “You’re dangerously close to asking me to visit.”
That smile deepened, unmistakably pleased. “I’d never be so unprofessional.”
I stood, stepping close enough that our shoulders nearly brushed. “Liar.”
His laugh was quiet, rough, and entirely for me. “Text me when you get home,” he said. “So I know you didn’t fall asleep at the wheel.”
I met his gaze, heat coiling low in my stomach. “Only if you promise to answer.”
“Always,” he said. And as he walked away, conference-bound and entirely too certain of himself, I had the distinct, terrifying realization that distance wasn’t going to save either of us.
If anything, it was just going to make the wanting louder.