The initial consultations regarding her complex tibial plateau fracture were strictly professional, scheduled for 10 AM sharp. But as the days of her hospitalization stretched into a week, Dr. Joel Goran’s visits began to drift later, settling into the quiet, dimly lit hours after evening rounds. The chart at the foot of her bed was just a formality; he found himself lingering by her bedside, his hip leaning against the safety rail.

Tonight, she was propped up on pillows, the glow of her phone illuminating her face. “Look,” she said, her voice soft with a mix of painkillers and genuine amusement, tilting the screen toward him. “A golden retriever trying to herd a flock of ducks. He looks so proud and so confused at the same time.”

Joel, still in his scrubs, let out a low chuckle, a genuine, unguarded sound. He didn’t glance at his watch. Instead, he listened as she scrolled, her words painting pictures of silly animal videos and heartwarming stories she’d saved for him. It was a small, shared universe she was building for them inside the sterile hospital room.

During a story about a lost cat finding its way home, her hand rested on the blanket near the edge of the bed. His own hand, which had been holding her chart, moved almost of its own volition to cover hers. His thumb stroked the back of her knuckles, a slow, soothing rhythm. She didn’t pull away; her fingers relaxed beneath his, and she continued talking, her voice now a soft murmur in the intimate dark. The touch was no longer clinical. It was an anchor, a silent confession that these late-night visits had nothing to do with mending bone and everything to do with mending something else entirely.

A comfortable silence settled between them, filled only by the soft rhythm of their breathing. Her fingers, still tucked under his, shifted slightly, turning so her palm pressed against his in a silent invitation. Joel accepted it without a word, lacing his fingers through hers. The contact was warm, solid, and felt more significant than any that had come before.

"You should probably get some rest," he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. Yet, he made no move to pull his hand away. His thumb continued its slow, absent-minded caress along the side of her hand, a touch that had long since crossed the boundary from professional comfort to something deeply personal.

She looked up at him, the dim light catching the tired but soft expression in her eyes. "Will you be here in the morning?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, the question hanging in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Joel looked down at their joined hands, then back at her face, his own a mask of quiet conflict. The words "for my rounds" were the expected, professional answer, the one he should have given. But they stuck in his throat.

Instead, he simply gave her hand a gentle, final squeeze and stood. "Goodnight," he said, the word feeling both like an end and a promise. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him, a sliver of hallway light cutting across the floor. She watched him go, the warmth of his hand lingering on hers, the future of whatever was growing between them left entirely, tantalizingly, open.