Epilogue
Desmond
Several months later, and night shifts still felt like living in a world of half-light and adrenaline. The hum of monitors and the distant wail of ambulance sirens was as familiar as the coffee stain on my scrubs. Only now, it felt… lighter. Safer.
Because she was here.
Anya moved with the same sharp efficiency I remembered from the old days, but there was a quiet confidence now that hadn’t been there before.
Every glance we exchanged carried the memory of our chaos, our recovery, the way intimacy had threaded itself through every long night — and sometimes through every messy, reckless, wonderful moment between us.
Tonight, the calls had mostly come from a nearby apartment fire.
Smoke inhalation, minor burns, the usual panic wrapped around heroics.
I tossed my gloves into the bin, rubbing sanitizer into my hands with automatic rhythm, and laughed softly when I saw Anya leaning against a workstation, chart in hand, brow furrowed like she hadn’t slept enough — which she hadn’t, but she carried it like a badge.
“Those two never really quit, do they?” I asked, pressing my palms into the counter next to her.
“Who? Ezra and Giovanni?” She shook her head, letting out a laugh that carried a little exasperation. “No. And I just feel bad for that poor girl in there — what was her name?”
I flicked my eyes to the chart in front of me. “Nelle Payton. Twenty-nine. Gio pulled her out on the bucket.”
“Shit,” she murmured, grimacing. “She gonna be okay?”
“Oh, for sure. Probably some lung scarring from the inhalation, but everything else came back clear.”
She leaned over, resting her head lightly on my shoulder, and I let a quiet moment settle between us. “I meant with the two big lugs in her room, Des.”
I turned and pressed a soft kiss to her temple, feeling the warmth and weight of her, still so alive and human and steady. “Oh, no. Definitely not. It’s dangerous in there. Palpable tension. And — answer me honestly — we weren’t ever that bad, were we?”
“No,” she said immediately, almost too easily.
“Yes.” A new voice cut in, sharp and teasing: “It was disgusting. You weren’t suave about it at all. And we all had to hear you fucking. Which… actually made it worse.”
I blinked, then glanced at Anya. Liza, laughing behind us, shook her head and disappeared before I could say anything clever.
“Doctor V?”
We both turned to the fresh-faced intern, answering in unison: “Yes?”
“Oh — um,” she stammered, rocking on her heels. “Mrs. Doctor V. The patient in room nine is asking for you.”
I shot Anya a sideways look, eyebrow arched. “Mrs. Doctor V,” I said slowly, letting it linger. “My wife, Doctor V.”
She laughed, her head tilting against mine. “The better Doctor V,” she said, kissing the corner of my cheek before slipping away.
I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, the weight of months of chaos, exhaustion, and recovery settling into something warm and quiet. The world was still spinning, still unpredictable, still too much sometimes — but right now, we had each other. And that was enough.